


Reassembling History

by genteelrebel



Category: Highlander: The Raven, Highlander: The Series, James May: The Reassembler RPF, The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: AU: All the Top Gear boys are divorced or single, African Folklore, Amazon Years, BBC Years, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Demisexual James, Drama, Epic, Episode Related, Explicit Language, Happy Ending, Humor, Minor Character Death, Multi, OT3, Romance, nearvirgin!James, questfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-29 07:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 109,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: When James meets a lowly BBC researcher by the name of Ben Adamson, there’s an immediate spark between them.  Not only is Ben tall, dark, and handsome—if regrettably large nosed--but James finds Ben’s knowledge of history fascinating, especially his habit of speaking of historical events as if he’d actually lived through them.  The two quickly strike up a friendship which looks like it might develop into something more.But when tragedy appears to strike Ben’s young friend Richard Ryan, James is drawn into an improbable chain of events, during which he learns more about Ben than he ever expected.  And more about himself, as well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liz_mo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_mo/gifts).



> My first ever Clan Denial fic! Richie Ryan lives! For completely mysterious and unexplored reasons! Woohoo!
> 
> Is it still RPF when you cross over with a completely fictional universe? I don’t know, but it still bears repeating: this story is a work of fan fiction based on the public lives of real people. While a few of the events may resemble things that happened in our allegedly real universe, the thoughts/conversations/feelings and most especially the relationships depicted within are entirely the product of my own fertile mind. *wistful sigh*
> 
> Dedication: For liz-mo, who loves Methos, the rightness of the three TG/GT boys together, old mythic stories, the special episodes, and really really long fic just as much as I do. I tried to include them all, my dear. Happy Birthday 2019!
> 
> This story has not been Brit-picked.

**_Early spring, 2010_ **

_Well,_ James thought to himself as he watched the latest Stig wannabe emerge from the test car, _This one’s not going to work out, now is he?_

It wasn’t the kid’s driving ability that was going to cost him the job.  That was rather astonishing…fearless and fast no matter what kind of car or conditions they’d thrown at him, with an almost supernatural smoothness that you wouldn’t find in most drivers with ten times the boy’s experience.  James assumed it was that uncanny skill that was responsible for getting the kid this far into the audition process at all, since Andy had rather derisively commented that his entire CV wouldn’t fill up half of a cocktail napkin. So no, his driving wasn’t the problem.   Nor was it his obvious youth…God knew, they seemed to be making racing drivers younger all the time.  It wasn’t even his breezy American manners or his really rather ridiculously handsome boy-next-door looks that were the problem, either.  He’d always have the helmet on in public, after all. And it would do Hammond no end of good to no longer be the tastiest young thing on the track.

No.  The thing that was going to get young Richard Ryan into trouble was his blatant, unmistakable, eyes-shining-and-voice-quivering hero worship for all things Top Gear.  He’d had that wide-eyed, “Gosh, I can’t believe I’m actually here!” look from the moment he’d first arrived, and had even appeared gratifyingly star-struck when he’d shaken James's hand.  But if he’d been star-struck by James, he’d been practically star-bulldozed by Jeremy, whom he seemed to regard as a living god incarnate.  When they’d first been introduced the kid had practically peed his pants…and flattering as that was, James knew it wasn’t going to fly. God knew, Jeremy enjoyed having his ego flattered as much as the next man.  But in a coworker…especially someone he’d have to work with as intimately as the new Stig…stunned admiration wouldn’t work.  Jeremy was self-honest enough to know that he needed colleagues who would constantly challenge him, lest his own personality simply steamroller over everything and cause the filming to suffer as a result.  This kid was far too awed to do that.

Still.  There was no doubt that the boy had racing in his blood, and Jeremy and Andy were having him do extra test laps anyway while they argued the matter between them.  James, who already knew what the end result of that argument would be…a reluctant no, perhaps with a firm promise to keep the kid in mind for some uncredited stunt work in the future…shook his head sadly and wandered back to the Portakabin.  They really did need to find a new Stig ASAP; the deadlines for the new series were looming fast.  But they were such a close-knit group that finding the right fit was crucial, especially after Collins’s betrayals.  It would be far better to write Stiggy out of a few episodes than to saddle themselves with someone who just didn’t belong.  But from the sound of it, it was going to take Jeremy and Andy a little while to acknowledge this.  James might as well help himself to a cup of tea.

He was startled to find that the Portakabin was already occupied.  Not by Hammond or a member of the crew, but by a tall, slender, young-thirty-something man James didn’t know, although he did look vaguely familiar.  The stranger had been standing out the window watching the kid’s laps, a tea cup of his own cradled in his hands.  He jumped a little when James entered, looking ever so slightly guilty.  “Oh!  Sorry, Mr. May,” he said apologetically.  “One of the production assistants said it would be all right if I waited in here, since it’s not a formal filming day and the guest cabin is still locked.  I can go, though…”

James waved this away.  He appreciated the offer. This Portakabin _was_ the presenter’s sanctuary, their necessary refuge from the stresses of filming and of simply being the public faces of the Top Gear world.  And if it had been a filming day, James, who needed that refuge more than most, would have had no qualms about booting the stranger from it.  But today there was no one around, really, except for Jeremy and Andy and the bare skeleton of a crew needed to record the kid’s audition laps.  Everything was quite relaxed, and James didn’t mind sharing either the space or the tea.  Especially since the stranger looked nervous enough for them both.  “You here with the kid?” James asked.

The stranger nodded self-consciously.  “Is it that obvious?”  He took another look at the window, where the boy…hair shining even in the sluggish winter sun…had finally gotten out of the car and was talking to Jeremy, helmet under one arm.  The stranger shook his head sadly.  “It’s not going well, is it.”

James frowned.  It wasn’t, of course, but he had no idea what to do with the stranger’s unexpected insight.  “He drives very well,” he hedged.

“Oh, yes,” the other man agreed, with a tight smile.  “Richie has always driven well.  But that’s not enough, is it?  Not for this.  I did tell him, but he insisted on trying anyway…”  James assumed a rather deer-caught-in-headlights expression, wondering just how honest he should be…and wishing for the millionth time that social interactions came with an understandable manual to follow.  The stranger seemed to catch his discomfort.   A far more genuine smile lit his face.  “Sorry,” he said again.  “Didn’t mean to go on like that.  I’m Ben, by the way.”  He offered his hand.  “Ben Adamson.”

This, at least, was a social ritual James knew how to perform.  “James May,” he said as he took the proffered hand, though of course the other man already knew that.  He’d called him Mr. May when he’d first walked in, hadn’t he?  Adamson just smiled again and turned away, resuming his post at the window.  James frowned.  Adamson’s fingers had been long and pale and astonishingly elegant...and also astonishingly calloused.  Guitarist?  No, the callouses extended far past his fingertips, onto the palm of his hand.  Mechanic? Maybe. That might explain the feeling that James already knew him.  “Have I seen you somewhere before?” he asked.

It came out sounding like a rather cheesy pick up line.  James found himself fighting off a blush, as one thought inevitably led to another and his singularly unhelpful libido informed him that Adamson was exactly the kind of good-looking bloke it wouldn’t mind James picking up at all, thank you.  But James squelched his wayward sex drive with the ease born of long practice.  This wasn’t the place.  Truthfully, nowhere had ever been the place.  And he had long since given up hope that anyplace ever would be.  Fortunately, Adamson just nodded.  “Probably,” he said. “I’m a historical researcher at the Beeb.  I’m not attached to any one program, they just send me wherever someone needs an extra hand. I did some background work on the last couple of ‘Things You Should Know.’  Top Gear, too, when your regular research guys get too much on their plates.”  He shrugged modestly. 

“Oh! Right,” James said.  He nodded at the window.  “You must be the one who introduced the kid to Andy, then.  I was wondering how a youngster like that even got an audition.  I mean, his driving is impressive.   But…”

“But he’s only got about a year’s worth of races to his credit, and while his times are fantastic, they were all recorded on hick tracks in the middle of nowhere,” Adamson finished.  “Yes, I know.  Richie talked me into making sure Mr. Wilman got a tape of him driving in his last race in the Florida Keys. It was against my better judgment.  I knew it could never work out.  But…”  He shrugged.  “Top Gear.  It’s magic.  Can’t really blame the kid for wanting to be a part of it.  Part of something that…that will last.”

He said this last bit with a grateful deal of wistfulness, looking out at Richard so sadly that James was forced to wonder…just how was Adamson related to the boy?  He was too many years older and seemed much too concerned about the kid to be just an ordinary mate, but was far too young to be his father.  Maybe…James fought off another flush.  “Is Richie your, ah…” he started.  And then stopped, completely uncertain of how to finish the question.

“Son?” Adamson finished for him, and blanched.  “No.  I don’t have any kids, and never will, thank heaven.  The world is already a weird enough place without me adding any of my spawn to it.”  He shuddered theatrically, startling James into a laugh.  “No,” Adamson went on, “Richie is….well, he’s the adopted son of a friend of a friend.  I’ve been keeping an eye on him since he moved to the UK, that’s all.”

“Oh, right,” James said awkwardly, flush returning as he pondered what he’d mistakenly suspected the two men’s relationship might be.  Adamson frowned, and looked as if he might be about to say something more…but just then Richie shook hands with both Jeremy and Andy and started walking toward the Portakabin, head slumped dejectedly.   “It’s over, then,” Adamson said softly.  “Which is undoubtedly for the best.  Still, I feel bad for him.  He really wanted this.”

James shifted uncomfortably.  He’d lost too many of his own dreams to witness the crashing of another’s with total detachment.  And Top Gear _was_ magic.  Who wouldn’t mourn losing a chance to be a part of it?  “He did well, getting this far.  And he made a good impression.  I’m sure Andy will keep him in mind for future projects,” he said inadequately. “Maybe in a few years, when he’s older…”

That odd wistfulness returned to Adamson’s face.  “Maybe,” he said.   Then he shook himself and held out his hand.  “Well.  I’d best be off.  It was good to finally meet you in person, Mr. May.”

“James,” James corrected…without quite knowing why.  He didn’t know why he clasped the stranger’s hand quite so enthusiastically, either, or how to explain the electric shock that went down his spine as he did.  Adamson’s eyes met his, and for a moment all James could register was a surprise that seemed to mirror his own, reflected back at him in a sea of greenish grey with flecks of gold and brown that made up the most unusual color of eyes he’d ever contemplated.  “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again,” he heard himself say.

And the surprise fled, replaced by… the only word James could find was _knowingness._ It wasn’t the knowingness he’d half dared to hope for, though.  Not the cautious, lustful knowing of one closeted gay man recognizing another, and using bland social platitudes to safely negotiate an attraction.  Although, truth be told, it had been many years since James had last let himself see that very particular brand of recognition.  The signals might very well have changed. 

But even so, James would have sworn this was different.  For a moment the young man in front of him looked tired, so tired his eyes seemed ancient. James wondered what Adamson was seeing in James’s eyes in return.   “Perhaps,” Adamson said noncommittally.  “Well.  I wish you better luck in finding another candidate elsewhere.”

“Thanks,” James said, and with that Adamson was gone, moving out the door and down the stairs with such startling swiftness and lightness of step that James almost doubted he’d ever been there at all.  He shrugged, and went to finish his tea.

***

“I can’t believe you want to watch these now,” Richie said, as he knelt on the floor in front of Methos’s DVD player.  The plastic box labelled “The Best of Top Gear” was open on Methos’s coffee table.  “Top Gear:  The Specials” and “Top Gear: The Challenges” were stacked neatly beside it.  “I mean, really.   Now that they’ve officially given me the push, now is the time you finally want to become a fan?”

Methos, sitting expectantly on his couch while the DVD player powered up, chose to ignore this in favor of twisting the top off another bottle of beer.  He knew the protest was more for ritual’s sake than anything else.  “It wouldn’t have worked out anyway,” he said. 

“Yes, yes, I know,” Richie said with a grimace.  “If you hadn’t already told me, Mac sure did.”

“Ah.  Shared his opinion with you rather vociferously, did he?”

“Scolded me like I was still sixteen and he’d caught me putting regular gas instead of high octane into his precious T-Bird,” Richie said sourly.  “I’m surprised the phone didn’t melt.  But I guess he did have a point.”   Riche gestured at his face ruefully.  “Thanks to the helmet, the public may never have noticed that ‘The Stig’ stayed age 19 forever…”

“Ah ah ah.”  Methos wagged an admonitory finger at the younger Immortal.  “You were not today, and never have been, auditioning to become The Stig, young Ryan.  The true identity of that rarified being is one of the BBC’s greatest secrets.   If anyone asks, you were just being considered for a special stunt driving position.”  He shrugged.  “They never would have let me come to the track with you if they thought you knew.”

“Right.”  Richie rolled his eyes.  “Because _normal_ stunt drivers on Top Gear require eight call back auditions and a meeting with Wilman and Clarkson themselves to hire.  Not to mention the massive non-disclosure they made me sign…that thing was thicker than a phone book.  You don’t have to remind me not to talk to anyone besides you and Mac, Methos. I officially gave them the right to sue me for my underwear if I ever admit I was in England at all this week, let alone in Surrey.  But never mind.”  He got up off the floor.  “Like I was saying, Mac did have a point.  Because of the helmet, the audience may never have noticed that ‘The Stig’ stayed a teenager forever…but sooner or later the crew would have.  And yes, I really do know how awkward it could have been if I messed up, had a bad crash on camera and then walked away with no injuries.  I just…”  He sighed.  “I just wasn’t going to mess up, that’s all.  And I thought I might have a few years before the age thing got too awkward.”  He looked down at the DVD player meditatively as the disk spun up.  “Pretty dumb, huh.” 

“Fairly dumb, yes,” Methos agreed.  “Planning on your own infallibility is never wise, Richie.  Trust me.  No matter how careful you think you’re being, you’ll always find some way to kick yourself directly in your own arse.”  Richie nodded and stuck his hands in his pocket, gaze descending dejectedly from the DVD player to the floor.  Methos gave him a tiny lip quirk of a smile.  “But it’s understandable, too.” 

“Yeah?”

“You thought you saw a way to make a dream come true.  You went for it.  Maybe not the most sensible thing to do…but then, the really good dreams almost never are.  Sensible, I mean.”  He shrugged.  “And you’re much too young to give up on following your dreams altogether.  Wait another millennia or two.”

The advice seemed to work.  Both Richie’s shoulders and his expression lightened, his own lips quirking up to mirror Methos’s.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I mean, I’m going to be thirty-six on my next birthday.  Thirty-six!  That’s, like, barely a heartbeat away from the big four-oh.  Seems to me I should be well on my way to becoming just as cynical and disillusioned as you.”  Methos smirked appreciatively, and shifted over slightly so the kid could sit down on the couch.  “Although…” Richie drawled.  “I don’t know, these days you don’t seem to be quite as disillusioned as you used to pretend you were.  How about it, old man?  Still got some childhood dreams of your own that you haven’t given up on?  What did you want to be when you were, say, fourteen, anyway?”

Methos snorted derisively.  “Richie, when I was fourteen, all I wanted was to one day own my own camel, and in the meantime, figure out how to have sex with all three of my foster sisters without getting caught,” he said.  “By the time I was twenty, my ambitions all centered on figuring out new ways to kill everyone around me as brutally and bloodily as possible.  It’s probably for the best that I leave those dreams behind, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Richie agreed, deadpan.  “I hear trying to keep a camel in London can be a real bitch.” 

Methos couldn’t help it; his snort turned into a full-out chuckle.  Richie, clearly pleased by Methos’s reaction, smiled even more broadly.  “Might be a bit hard to get yourself adopted by a family with enough hot sisters at your apparent age now, too.  But I hear there’s chicks out there that enjoy that kind of thing, you know, as a fantasy.  I could point you toward a few websites…”

Methos’s answer to this was to hit Richie firmly with a couch cushion.  Chuckling, the kid pushed it away.  Then he selected the first Top Gear special with the remote control and started it playing. 

As the stirring strains of “Jessica” filled the air, Methos reflected on just what a strange thing Immortal life could be.  When Amanda had called Methos out of the blue and requested…all right, demanded…that Methos keep an eye on Richie while he was in England, Methos had expected the duty to be onerous in the extreme.  Only his and Amanda’s extremely long and complicated history had kept him from relocating to Bora Bora ASAP.  Things between Methos and MacLeod had deteriorated so much during the last decade that Methos hadn’t wanted to get anywhere near his student.  Besides, the so-called kid _was_ rapidly approaching “the big four-oh”.  If Richie couldn’t keep his head on Methos’s turf, there was damn little Methos could do about it.  So why should he involve himself at all?

But Amanda had insisted, so Methos had sighed and done the neighborly thing.  He’d invited Richie over to share beer and pizza on a few lonely Saturday nights, and taken him on a few city tours that included convenient patches of holy ground as well as the more traditional tourist sites.  To Methos’s surprise, Richie had turned out to be surprisingly good company, much more so than he’d have suspected from a student of MacLeod.  Even during their best years, long before events had strained their fragile friendship past the point of no return, the Highlander would never have been content to spend a long weekend simply lounging around drinking beer and watching old Steve McQueen flicks on DVD.  And he certainly wouldn’t have let Methos’s tongue-in-cheek reference to his bloody past go by without some kind of disapproving remark, let alone made a joke about it like Richie had.  It was nice, having someone in his life who could do that; nice, to have another Immortal around who knew the truth about his age and violent history but who didn’t treat him like either one mattered.  Nice to just relax with someone who wouldn’t automatically reach for his sword if Methos moved to hit him with a pillow.  Nice to have a friend.

It filled an empty place in Methos’s life that he hadn’t really known was there, to tell the truth.

But that didn’t mean that there weren’t other empty places yet to fill.  Next to him, Richie started guffawing loudly over some chicanery Hammond and Clarkson were perpetrating on screen.  Methos hid a smile, then returned his attention to the telly, where the third member of the Top Gear trio was now in view, staring at the other two in mock disgust.  The camera’s eye lingered on him, all astounding blue eyes and wild hair, and Methos settled in for a good long watch. 

It was definitely time to give Mr. James May some serious study.

 

***

 

In future years, whenever James looked back on that first night, he wouldn’t be able to believe that he’d missed him.

He’d understand why everyone else had.  Ben Adamson had a way of standing that made him appear to be much thinner and shorter than he really was—shoulders slumped, elbows turned in, and face always angled down, so that his dark hair fell forward over his face and hid his extraordinary hazel eyes.  James recognized the technique, as he’d spent many years employing it himself.  At least, he had right up until the day Hammond had taken him aside—it had been in the middle of their second series filming together-- and had kindly-but-firmly informed him that trying to hide behind James’s hair was like trying to hide a mouse behind an elephant.  The mouse might stay hidden, sure.  But the elephant was still bound to cause comment…

Adamson didn’t have that problem.  In fact, in the crowd of cheerful, laughing spectators at the pub, he all but disappeared.  James could easily have been forgiven for failing to notice him at all.  But he’d happened to glance up at a moment when Adamson had been looking right at him, and he’d met his intense gaze across the table.  And then all he could think was, _I knew all along that something was different tonight._

_I should have known that thing was him._

It was a strange thought to have, but James didn’t have time to wonder at himself.  Sim smacked the vintage 1980’s Sony boom box he’d been working on with shout of triumph, hooting “Beat you again, James!” at the top of his lungs, and James still had four screws to tighten on his own boom box’s outer casing.   He ignored the enthusiastic cheer from the crowd in order to do so properly, and by the time screw number three had been tightened to his satisfaction, the noise had died down enough that James’s voice could once again be heard.  “Haven’t beaten me yet, mate,” James said, with his very best cocky grin.  “Remember, it’s not the first one to finish who wins.  It’s the first one to finish with a working product.  Who’s got the cassette?”

“Nate does.”

“Pass it over, then.”

Several bar patrons began a rhythmic drumming on the bar as a battered old cassette tape was produced and duly passed hand-over-hand to Sim.  Sim raised his eyebrows in eloquent astonishment at the hearts and flowers liberally drawn all over the label.  “Piss off,” Nate the bartender said genially before Sim could open his mouth.  “It’s the mix tape my Molly made me when we first started dating, all right?  You’re lucky to get anything at all, you sods; everyone I know tossed out the last of their cassettes years ago.  I only found this because Mol had it tucked into her memory box.  Shred it and she’ll kill you, you hear me?”

The drumming dissolved into laughter and a dramatic communal “Ooooo!” as Sim mimed desperate fear, then smiled brilliantly and carefully slid the cassette tape into the player.  Absolute silence fell, so that the click of the play button could be heard in the furthest corner of the pub.  The wheels went around once, twice…then stuttered and stopped, as a decidedly non-musical electronic hum filled the air.  

This time the crowd’s “Ooooo!” was a groan of heartfelt, sympathetic disappointment.  Sim pressed his hands to his face for a moment, then hit eject and pushed the tape across the table to James, who was beaming smugly.  “All right, all right,” Sim said.  “Clearly I didn’t pay enough attention to the tape transport mechanism. Point taken, mate…but you haven’t won yet.  Your turn.”

Smiling broadly, James tightened the fourth and final screw with deliberate slowness.  The crowd was with him now, he could feel it.  So, like a particularly gifted surfboarder, he rode the wave of their attention, letting the tension and hilarity mount with every theatrically exaggerated turn of his screwdriver.  The low drumming started again as he carefully installed the 8 D-cell batteries and then slipped the cassette—mercifully un-mangled by Sim’s failed attempt at playing it, which James was glad about, as Nate’s Molly was a good sort he really didn’t want to annoy—into his own newly reassembled tape deck.  The drumming rose to fever pitch as he shut the door, then abruptly silenced as James’s finger hovered dramatically over the play button.  Then the silence erupted into a shattering roar of approval when James pressed down and “Dancing Queen” suddenly came pouring out of the speakers. 

James…suddenly overwhelmed by the number of people wanting to shake his hand and slap his back…almost missed Sim’s incredulous “ _Abba_ , mate?” and Nate the bartender’s protesting “It was the eighties!”, though he definitely heard the fresh roar of laughter triggered by this exchange.  But James’s attention was elsewhere. By now, Adamson had been completely swallowed up by the laughing, congratulatory crowd.  James, though, had felt his eyes on him just before the music had begun to play, and when he’d looked up and met his gaze he’d thought he’d seen…well.  Not just the boozy good humor present in most of the spectators.  Something else.  Something…intriguing.   James swept up two of the many complementary pints that were now thronging the tabletop and went to seek him out.

His getaway was nearly thwarted.  A new-ish friend of Sim’s from work—one whom James was sure he’d been formally introduced to multiple times, but whose name he still couldn’t remember no matter how hard he tried--stopped him with a hand on his elbow.  “But do the radios work?”  the friend asked, yelling a bit to be heard over the crowd. 

James started to gesture, remembered he was burdened in both hands, and shrugged instead.  “Be my guest, try them out yourself,” he shouted back.  “If Sim’s picks up a station and mine can’t, I’ll buy the next round.” 

Sim’s mystery mate smiled broadly and went off toward the table.  James heaved a sigh of relief at the narrow escape and resumed searching the crowd.  He just hoped he’d be able to find Adamson before someone jostled him and spilled the beer.

Luck was with him.  He found his quarry with both pints still un-spilled.  Adamson was standing on the very outskirts of the crowd around the bar.  He appeared to be debating his chances of living long enough to order a drink of his own, and clearly didn’t like his odds; James saw him looking down at the time display on his mobile and then back at the bar, obviously trying to decide if he should just give up and leave.  Adamson seemed startled when he first realized James was coming toward him.  He seemed even more startled when James made eye contact and nodded at him, the beer, and a quiet table in the corner in quick succession. But surprised or not, Adamson made his way to the table quickly, and inhaled his first sip of James’s proffered pint with all the quiet reverence of a man receiving manna from heaven.  “Thanks,” Adamson said appreciatively.  “You have no idea how much I needed that.  I was beginning to think I’d be standing there until Abba made yet another comeback.” 

James snorted.  “Yes, it gets busy, competition weekends,” he said.  “Thought I’d rescue you.”

“Which I deeply appreciate, believe me.”  Adamson took another closed-eyed, worshipful sip of beer.  James found himself staring, completely drawn in by the sheer amount of pleasure the man appeared to be getting from his drink.  He flushed a little, eyes inexorably drawn to the way Adamson’s throat worked as he swallowed, wayward mind wondering--did the man take that much pleasure in everything?  This led to a bit of an awkward moment when Adamson’s eyes popped open again without warning, before James could drag his fascinated gaze away. He flushed, wondering if Adamson had noticed, and if he had, just how much James’s face had given away. Especially when the other man lowered his glass. “So,” Adamson said, waving his pint vaguely at the other end of the bar.  “Do you do this sort of thing often?”

For a heart pounding moment, James thought he was asking if he often brought free beer to handsome strangers.  But then he realized what direction Adamson had waved the pint in—toward the table where Sim was still standing, surrounded by a group of interested spectators who were laughingly trying to tune the newly reassembled boom box radios—and he recovered himself more or less gracefully.  “What, the competitive reassembly?” he said, ridiculously relieved when Adamson gave him a confirming nod.  “Yeah, I guess.  We get together and do it once a month or so.  Or at least we try to, whenever I’m not too busy filming.”

“How on earth did you ever get started?  It’s not exactly your typical pub trivia competition.”

“No.”  James laughed a little.  “Well.  Nate—that’s the bartender—he had an old broken-down blender from the 70’s that he left out on the bar one day.  I’ve always been a little…er, obsessive…about fixing things.  It’s fun for me to take machinery apart, and it hurts me to leave something broken if a little effort can set it back to rights.  So I started taking apart the motor, and before I knew it I had an audience.”  He smiled reminiscently.  “They gave quite a cheer when I got it going again and Nate used it blend some strawberries for a daiquiri.  Word got around, the regulars started bringing me odder and odder things to fix, and they’d all sit around watching me while I worked.  Sim would help out, until one day somebody asked which of us could put something together the fastest, and Sim got this look in his eye.  The next weekend he showed up with two old Mr. Coffees completely reduced to their component parts and had Nate stand over us with a stopwatch.  It all just steamrolled from there.”  James shrugged awkwardly, already bracing himself for Adamson’s inevitable ridicule.  “We’d probably do it every weekend if we could, truth be told.  But it’s hard to find the right kind of things to do it with.”

Adamson nodded.  “Things complicated enough to be interesting, but still simple enough that they can be put back together by a bloke with a screwdriver in a single weekend,” he agreed.  “Plus you have to find two identical examples of whatever object you pick, and they both have to work perfectly before you dissemble them, or the contest wouldn’t be fair.  Not easy to find.  Especially not with older technology, which whatever you pick pretty much has to be, since everything nowadays is designed to break irrevocably if you so much as dare to peak under the cover plate.  I imagine you spend a lot of time scouring junk shops for your next challenge.”  James gaped at him.  Adamson frowned.  “What?”

“Sorry,” James said.  “It’s just the first question most people ask when they stumble in here on a competition night is ‘why would you bother?’ Not ‘how do you find the stuff you put together?’”

Adamson smiled mysteriously.  “Let me guess.  People like your Top Gear co-presenters?”

James chuckled, remembering the one and only time he’d ever invited Jeremy and Richard to one of his and Sim’s reassembly weekends.  “Clarkson only made it ten minutes before he faked a phone call on his cell and excused himself,” he said.  “I was glad he did; he looked like he was about to attack the table with a hammer. Hammond lasted the whole two days, but he was so glassy-eyed by the end half the bar thought he’d resorted to drugs in order to make it.”  James shrugged, attempting to lighten his words with a smile.  “Most people just don’t get why putting together an old machine would be fun.”

Adamson raised his eyebrows.  “There’s a bar full of people here who say differently, James.”

“Them?  Oh, they’re just here for the spectacle,” James said dismissively.  “Sim and I always put on a good show, clown around a bit, make it entertaining.  It’s more interesting than the typical pub trivia night, as you said.  Plus nobody wants to miss seeing their local television personality making a great big nerdy cock of himself. Nate likes it, it’s good for business.  But Sim and I are the only ones who are really interested in what we put together.”  He snorted.  “And I’m the only one who actually cares if what we put together works.”

“I don’t know,” Adamson said thoughtfully.  “I think you’re selling your audience short.  And yourself, as well.”

“I am?”

“You are,” Adamson repeated.  “Oh, you’re probably right…probably nobody in the bar today really cares that the portable cassette player was what made the breakdance craze of the 80’s possible, or that the cassettes in this particular model sit in the deck upside down, which reduces the drag and wear upon the tape.  But I was watching, and…for a few moments, while you were talking about it, at least a few of them did care.  Because you did.  Because you cared so much.”  James stared at him.  Adamson shrugged shyly.  “Your friend Sim—you’re right, he mostly just wants to get the pieces together in the right order.  It’s completing the puzzle that fascinates him.  But you see the bigger picture.”

“The bigger picture?”

“The wonder of it,” Adamson explained.  “The amazing, unlikely fact that such a thing was ever built at all.  The genius that went into each and every tiny part.  And you understand the way the finished product fits into history, too—the way it advanced upon all the musical devices that came before it, and paved the way for those that came after.  It’s hard to find people that appreciate history like that, James.  People who understand that something doesn’t cease to be miraculous just because it was eventually eclipsed by even greater miracles.  People who can see the true value of things everyone else has long since left behind.”  The same expression that had so intrigued James earlier…genuine appreciation, mixed with a sadness James couldn’t entirely understand…suddenly glowed in Adamson’s eyes.  “You weren’t just putting that boom box back together, James.  You were bringing it back to life.  And that was…quite an honor and a privilege to behold.”

James blinked. 

He was so used to being ridiculed for his passions that he braced himself again, waiting for the coming punchline…but there wasn’t one.  At least, he could have sworn there wouldn’t have been.  He didn’t really get the chance to find out.  Sim’s mystery mate and his assorted drunken helpers picked that moment to actually succeed at tuning the old 80’s dial radio, and it crackled into tinny life.  A second later, its twin joined it and synched with it, bringing on more hoots and another round of applause.  Several people turned in James’s direction, their pints upraised. 

Great.  Just what James needed, more attention.  And just when the conversation with Adamson was getting so interesting. James acknowledged the crowd’s congratulations with a nod and an upraised pint of his own, then winced as someone cranked the volumes on both radios to maximum.  The sounds of modern hip-hop quickly filled the bar.  “God,” Adamson said in an undertone, wincing right along with James.  “I think, on the whole, that I actually preferred the Abba.”

James’s lip quirked.  “I think I did, too.”  He hesitated for a second…and then the next words all came out in a rush.  “Would you like to go somewhere quieter?  My house is just a short walk away…” 

He flushed the moment he said it, aware of how the invitation sounded.  Did he mean it that way?  Did he want Adamson to think he did?  Not even James knew for sure.    But Adamson…after subjecting James to an intent, measuring stare that made James squirm in his chair…merely shook his head.  “I’m afraid I can’t tonight,” he said, smoothly tipping back the last of his beer.  (When had he managed to drink it all?  James had barely finished two inches of his own.)  “I’m meeting a business associate for dinner, and I really can’t afford to reschedule.  But I _would_ like to see you again.”  He stood up and tucked his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking as shy as James felt.  “I, um…I have something.  An old electric guitar I’ve had for years.  It’s not worth very much, but it was special to a friend of mine, and there’s a small short somewhere in the electrical system that no one’s ever been able to fix.  I thought that maybe…”

“I’d love to take a look at it,” James said.  “Let me give you my number.”

And that was how it started.

***

Adamson arrived at James’s home the following Sunday afternoon, driving—James was startled and pleased to see—a Fiat Panda only one year older than his own, and bearing a battered guitar case that looked suspiciously charred around the edges, almost as if it had gone through a fire.  This impression was confirmed when Adamson unsnapped the case and carefully laid its contents upon James’s workbench.  “Bloody hell,” James exclaimed, fingering the long, jagged gash that had disfigured the guitar’s once pristine plastic body.  “This isn’t a cut…the plastic’s all melted.  Some of the back and the fingerboard’s melted, too.”  He looked at Adamson in frank astonishment.  “What on earth happened to it?  Did it get struck by lightning?”

“Something like that,” Adamson answered.  “You should have seen what happened to the amp.” 

The words were light enough, clearly intended as a joke.  But to James’s eye, Adamson looked more than a little nervous…though perhaps that was to be expected, on a first date.  If that’s what this even was.  James had spent way too much of the last week distractedly wondering about that very question, and still didn’t have an adequate answer.   Maybe Adamson didn’t either, and that’s why he was currently shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot.  Or maybe the guitar just meant more to him than he wanted to let on.  Adamson’s teasing dropped away, replaced by an anxiety no amount of humor could adequately cover.  “Well, doctor, what do you think?  Will she ever play again?”

“Mmmm,” James said thoughtfully.  “I think there’s a good chance.  Hand me that spanner.” 

In the end, James pretty much had to rebuild the guitar from scratch. Oh, he salvaged the pegs, the fingerboard, the neck and the body.  It would have turned into a completely new instrument if he hadn’t. But absolutely all of the internal electronics had to be replaced, as most of the wiring had been melted or burned in a way James had never quite seen.  (Small short in the electrical system, James’s arse!)

The project took more than three months to complete, all told—much longer than it should have, especially with Adamson coming over to help every Sunday.  James told himself that it was just his usual borderline OCD obsession with perfection that made him take all the extra time.  It took him a long, long time to admit that he was prolonging the project simply because he enjoyed Adamson’s company. 

But that was the truth.

It wasn’t just because of the sexual attraction that simmered between them.  If that had been all there was…or if Adamson had ever done something overt to call attention to their chemistry, something more than give James the occasional disconcertingly intense, measuring gaze…James would have fixed the guitar by himself, delivered it back to its owner, and then never, ever seen him again.  There were reasons why he’d never gone beyond mild flirtation with a man, at least not since he’d left school.  These days, James told himself that those reasons mostly concerned Top Gear and all the nightmarish damage a scandal could do, but the truth actually ran much deeper.  And so if all Adamson had brought to their weekend repair fests was some good beer and the potential of good sex James could never let himself have…and yes, James knew to the depths of his being it would be good…that would have been it. He’d have ended the whole crazy thing before it ever really had the chance to get started.

Fortunately, Adamson brought much more than that.  He also brought conversation.

It had been years since James had had anyone in his life he could _talk_ to so freely, over such a variety of subjects.  Somewhere around the third week James inquired, half-teasing and half-awed, just how many advanced degrees Adamson held.  He hadn’t quite given in to curiosity and Googled Adamson’s CV, but he knew it had to be impressive. Adamson had just been hired as a full-time historical consultant on the BBC’s latest big budget costume drama, a plummy position that James knew required one doctorate at the very least.  But the thing that kept surprising James was that history clearly wasn’t Adamson’s only field. Engineering, history, mechanics, literature ranging from modern pot-boiler best sellers to ancient myths…Adamson could discuss them all, and he did with so much easy familiarity that James suspected he’d spent most of his life in school.  When James did finally ask him about his degrees, Adamson froze for a moment with a spanner in hand, looking shocked--and even, James thought, a little afraid.  Then a rueful expression crossed his face.  “I usually only admit to two or three,” he said.

James hadn’t pushed.  He was pretty sure he understood the reason for both the rue and the fear, having felt both of them himself often enough. It had taken James a surprisingly long time—he’d been well into his teenage years—to realize that his brain worked differently from most human beings, held onto information in ways that others simply did not.  But when he had finally understood, it had been a surprisingly painful revelation, one that isolated him and made him different from everyone else he knew. It had been even more painful, later on, to learn that the thing that REALLY set him apart was the inescapable fact that he kept wanting to learn more.  Curiosity, it seemed, was a thing most people left behind in their childhoods.  In James’s experience, very few grownups actually wanted to learn new things.  And so he had learned to hide the true depth of what he knew…and most especially to hide the depth of what he _wanted_ to know, all the things he spent so many hours investigating for no other reason than the sheer joy of discovery.  It simply wasn’t worth the ridicule.

But he didn’t have to hide around Adamson.  And after a few more moments of tension, during which James simply nodded and went back to his soldering without asking more questions, Adamson too seemed to relax, perhaps realizing for the first time that he didn’t have to hide around James, either.  James never did ask him about his education again.  He already knew that whatever the true story was, it was something that made Adamson different from his fellow man in uncomfortable ways, and there was no need to drag any of that pain up into the light.  Besides, James really couldn’t have cared less how many letters Adamson was entitled to write after his name.  What mattered was that he had the same passion that James did—the same need to constantly explore, and to keep trying to understand the way things fit together, be it into an engine or a circuit board or the tide of history.  And that when they were together, talking and arguing or even just being silent for hours on end as they worked, James felt significantly less alone.

By the time they’d finished the second month, “Adamson” had somehow miraculously transformed into “Ben” in James’s mind.  And it felt like he’d known him forever.

***

“So have you ever thought about what you’ll do when Top Gear finally goes off the air?”  Ben asked out of the blue one day, when he and James had retired early to James’s kitchen for a few well-earned beers.  “Assuming you couldn’t just get another job presenting at the BBC, I mean?”

Startled, James almost dropped the two bottles he’d just liberated from his refrigerator.  It took him three tries to nudge the door closed behind him with his foot.  “What? Why? Have you heard something I haven’t?”

“No!  God, no,”  Ben said hurriedly.  “No, as far as the BBC rumor mill goes, Top Gear is solid.  It wouldn’t surprise me if you lot got another ten series, maybe more.  I was just asking…generally.”  He gave a sheepish shrug.  “You’re good at so many things, James.  And I’ve never gotten the impression that you absolutely loved being a celebrity…you know, all that getting mobbed in the streets by your adoring fans…”

James rolled his eyes.  “If you put all my fans in one room, I still don’t think it would add up to a ‘mob’,” he said, handing a bottle to Ben.  “To most people, I’m still just ‘the other one’, you know.”

“Uh-huh.  Right,”  Ben said skeptically.  “And I think that’s just you clinging to a comfortable illusion, James.  When was the last time you were able to duck into Sainsbury’s to buy spam without someone stopping you for an autograph?”

“Er…”  James ducked his head into his shoulders protectively.  “It’s been a few years now, I suppose.”

“Thought so.  But the very fact that you aren’t eager to boast about it just proves my point,” Ben replied.  “You don’t really feed off your own fame, James.  Oh, I know at least a small part of you is always pleased whenever strangers off the street recognize your success—of course you are, you’ve worked bloody hard for it.  But you don’t _need_ the fame the way some celebrities do.  I think you could still walk away.”  He regarded James intently, so intently that James felt himself color a little under the scrutiny.  “So.  If you ever had to stop working as a broadcaster, what would you do instead?”

There was a strange seriousness in the question. James had the impression that his answer mattered far more to Ben than it possibly could.  “I don’t know,” he said honestly.  “Top Gear wasn’t something I’d ever expected.  It certainly wasn’t anything I’d ever thought to dream about as a kid.  But once it did happen…it just felt right.  Meant to be.”  He settled into the chair opposite Ben, suddenly feeling shy.  “I can’t imagine any other job one earth where I could be so much of myself without getting fired.  I burned through quite a few when I was younger, you know.”

“Yes, I know.”  Ben regarded him fondly.  “Your Autocar stunt is now the stuff of BBC watercooler legend.”

“Crap.”  Maybe Ben was right; maybe, if mention of his former prank could still make his ears turn pink, he really didn’t feed off his own celebrity.  Jeremy would just have laughed heartily and looked smug, pleased by the notoriety.  “Well, there you go,” James said, trying vainly to regain his equilibrium.  “But that’s just one example, I’m afraid.  I was always getting bored and doing something stupid to get myself into trouble.”  He sighed.  “Truthfully, I can’t think of any other job in the world that would fit me better.  Working on Top Gear might be infuriating sometimes…allright, often… but it is never, ever boring.  I’ve gotten to see places and do things I never thought possible.  And the best part…” He hesitated.

“Yes?”  Ben asked, oddly intent.  “What is the best part, James?”

“It’ll sound unbelievably corny.  You’ll laugh at me for my incredible girlishness.”

“Possibly.  I don’t think that’s really likely, though.  And I think that you should tell me even if I do.”

“Well.”  James fidgeted a bit.  But perhaps he was doing Ben a disservice.  The man had never once laughed at any of his other passions, after all.  “The best bit is getting to teach the world about things I care about.  The history of Brooklands, the origin of British Racing Green—I love filming segments like that.  Oddball bits of history that don’t fit into a classroom text but are still fascinating and…and _important_.  That’s the best bit,” James answered.  “Top Gear will always be my primary focus, but I have to say…being able to work on projects like _Toy Stories_ and _Things You Should Know_ and _Manlab_ these last few years has been absolute heaven.  Getting paid to work with a world-class team of researchers to learn about things I’m interested in?  And then getting to turn around and make it fun for other people to learn about them, too?  It’s…”  He shook his head wonderingly.  “Well.  It’s brilliant. I’m the luckiest man alive, that’s all.”

Ben was quiet for a minute, fingers toying idly with the neck of his beer bottle.  When he did finally look up and smile, James felt that he was forcing the expression.  “Yes,” he said.  “You’re like Anansi.  Aw-nonce-see,” Ben carefully enunciated when he saw James’s puzzled look.  “Anansi was an early West African demigod, one who liked to walk around in the shape of an ordinary spider, a man, or a six-foot-tall spider wearing a jaunty hat.  He was a trickster spirit _par excellence_ and the hero of innumerable folk tales, a bit like the Norwegian Loki or the Navajo Coyote.”  He shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I’ve been doing a lot of research on him lately.”

“Uh-huh.”  James arched his eyebrows skeptically.  “Don’t tell me Downtown Abbey is doing an episode centered around African folk tales.”

“Ah, no.  This particular research was entirely for me,” Ben said, with a much more genuine grin.  James smiled back.  They shared a knowing look for a moment, the understanding of the incorrigible seeker-of-knowledge, before Ben looked away.  “Anyway.  Anansi reminds me of you a lot.”

“Why?  Last time I checked, I wasn’t a demigod.  Or a trickster.”

“Right.  Pull the other one, Mr. ‘So you think it's really good, yeah? You should try making the bloody thing up; it's a real pain in the arse’,” Ben countered.  “I think, for you, the urge to play practical jokes mostly comes out of boredom and frustration, rather than a genuine desire to cause chaos and mayhem.  But you’ve definitely got some of the original trickster spirit in your blood, James.  Sometimes I think ‘Top Gear’ is nothing more than one long, unending practical joke you and Clarkson and Hammond dreamed up and are perpetrating upon an unsuspecting public.”  James couldn’t argue with this.  Truthfully, he’d often wondered the same thing.  “Anyway, that wasn’t the aspect of Anansi’s character that really made me think of you,” Ben continued.  “Once upon a time, you see, there were no stories in the world.  They all belonged to the Sky Father, who refused to share.  Anansi decided that just wasn’t fair, and decided to do something about it.”

James instantly relaxed.  He’d been privileged to hear Ben slip into story-telling mode several times now, and it was always rewarding.  “Can’t blame him there,” he said, taking another sip of beer.  “I wouldn’t want to live in a world without any stories, either.  What did Anansi do?”

“Well, he took a remarkably direct approach,” Ben replied.  “He just went to the Sky Father and offered to buy the stories from him.  The Sky Father, perhaps thinking that the best way to deal with Anansi’s pestering was simply to set a price so high Anansi couldn’t possible pay it, asked for an exorbitant fee.  He told Anansi to bring him Onini the Python, Osebo the Leopard, and the famous Mboro Hornets, confident that Anansi would never be able to capture all three.”

“Ah.  But he must have.  Or the Sky Father would still possess this very story, along with all the others.”

“I suppose the fact that I’m telling the story at all _is_ a bit of a spoiler,” Ben agreed with a chuckle.  “Yes, Anansi succeeded in capturing all three.  He put his trickster cleverness to good use.  He dug a pit for the leopard, and when Osebo fell in, Anansi offered to spin a web to rescue him—naturally, when Osebo attempted to climb up it, he got stuck and was caught.  Onini the python was a rather vain fellow, and Anansi used his vanity to trap him.  He brought Onini a long branch and claimed that the snake couldn’t possibly be longer than it.  When Onini disagreed and stretched out along the branch to prove he really was longer, Anansi said that he wiggled and slithered too much for Anansi to tell for sure—he’d have to tie his tail to the branch and stretch him out before he could measure him accurately.  Onini agreed, and voila!  He was caught, too.”

“And you say this Anansi reminds you of me?  Really?”

Ben shrugged easily.  “You’re a problem solver, James,” he said.  “And you can’t tell me that you’ve never used your coworker’s egos to trick them in into giving you something you wanted.  I imagine it must happen with Clarkson all the time.”

“Er.  Well…” 

“Never mind,” Ben said.  “I’ll let you stay silent in order to protect the guilty.”  He settled back thoughtfully in his chair.  “Capturing the hornets was just as easy.  Anansi used a banana leaf to sprinkle water over the swarm, then called to them that a huge rainstorm was coming, and they should fly into his calabash to stay dry.  They did, and Anansi easily plugged up the opening after them.  He then delivered them along with Onini and Osebo to the Sky Father, demanding his reward.”

“And did the Sky Father oblige?”

“He did.  Anansi was named the new God of All Stories, and left with a calabash containing every single story in the world.”

“Gosh,” said James, imaging this priceless treasure.  “Makes my new e-reader with its entire gigabyte of memory seem positively paltry in comparison.”  Ben laughed appreciatively.  James took a moment to appreciate this sight—Ben simply laughing with neither restraint nor malice was a remarkably beautiful thing—then asked the next obvious question.   “So what did Anansi do with the stories?”

“Ah, well.”  Ben sobered slightly.  “Anansi is a trickster spirit, as I said.  That means that in addition to pulling tricks on other beings, humans and deities alike, he also tends to pull them on himself.  He has a habit of constantly getting in his own way.  Of doing something stupid that causes everything he’s accomplished to come crashing down around his ears.”

“Hmmm.”  James nodded in resignation.  “Now I really do see why he reminds you of me.  That could be the entire story of my life, at least until I found Top Gear.  What happened?”

“Well, when he got back to earth, Anansi became terrified that someone might try to steal the stories from him,” Ben answered.  “So he went to The Tallest Tree in The World, convinced that if he could climb to the top and hide the calabash there, the stories would be safe.  Unfortunately, the tree’s bark was very slippery, and even with eight legs, Anansi couldn’t climb it and carry the calabash at the same time.  So he made a sling for the calabash, intending to carry it on his back.”

“Ah.”  James nodded in understanding, the memory of a dozen ‘ambitious but rubbish’ Top Gear projects flashing before his eyes.  “I take it that this plan did not go well.”

“Not well at all,” Ben agreed.  “When Anansi was a few hundred feet up, some birds flew by.  Anansi began to worry that they would see the stories and steal them from him, just pluck them off his back while he was helplessly clinging to the tree.  So he decided to rotate the sling around and carry the calabash against his belly instead.  The calabash rubbed against the tree; the sling got tangled and the calabash slipped out, falling all the way to the ground.  It cracked open on a sharp rock.  And all the stories blew away on the wind, carried to all the corners of the earth.”

“Poor Anansi!”

“Maybe.  Maybe not,” Ben said.  “Mostly, the old stories tell us that this mishap was a good thing.  Because from that day on, all the world’s stories belonged to _everyone—_ a basic truth I’m sure most modern copyright attorneys wouldn’t hesitate to argue, but which lingers on, nonetheless.  After all, once you’ve heard a story, it is yours, and no one can take it from you.  It will be a part of you until the end of your days.”

“That’s…”  James thought about this.  “That’s really true, actually.  All modern law can do is keep you from reprinting or rebroadcasting stories that aren’t your own.  They can’t keep you from _knowing_ them, can they.  And the best ones—the truly powerful ones—they stay with you.  They really do become a part of who you are.”  He looked at Ben with new respect.  “That’s quite a profound thought, Ben, something I’d never really considered before.  Thank you.”

Ben inclined his head gracefully.  “You are most welcome,” he said.  “But the second moral of the story is even more profound.  When the stories spread to every corner of the earth, so did all the wisdom they contained…so that now every being on earth carries some of that wisdom, at least a few kernels of it.  You never know which kernel ended up where.  So it behooves a man to treat everyone with respect, as even the most ridiculous, foolish person or animal might end up having exactly the piece of wisdom he needs.”  Ben’s hand tightened on his beer bottle, an odd sadness coming into his eyes.  “And that’s a small part of the reason why Anansi reminds me of you, James.  More than anyone I’ve ever met, you know in your heart that wisdom can be found in the most unexpected places.  But there’s an even greater similarity between you.  You see, some versions of the story say that Anansi spent the rest of his eternal life searching for his lost stories—but not because he wanted to steal them back.  He just loved them so much that he wanted to keep track of them.  To see where they landed and how they grew and changed over time, to help keep the farthest-flung fragments from being lost forever and to occasionally help weave them into something new.  And that’s you, James.”  Ben looked down at his lap, his voice becoming startlingly husky.  “That’s really, really you.”

James stared at him for several long moments, unsure of what to say.  Partly because the depth of this compliment absolutely floored him, but more because of what it seemed to mean to Ben.  There could be no question that the other man was profoundly moved…not only was there that husky resonance in his voice, but the way he refused to meet James’s eyes made it even more plain.  James couldn’t even begin to understand just what there was about relating this particular part of the story that had affected Ben so.  But he tried to respond with gentleness, as well as all the honesty that the moment deserved.  “I really like hearing your stories, Ben.”

“I know you do, James.”  Ben continued staring down at his knees for another few beats.  When he did look up, James thought he’d never seen anything quite so brittlely, fragilely painful as his smile.  “And someday…” He hesitated.

“Someday?” James asked.

“Someday, I hope to tell you many, many more,” Ben answered.  “But for now…”  He sighed, and picked up his now empty bottle.  “For now, I think we should have another beer.”

***

James fretted quite a bit, the day Ben came to finally take his guitar home.  He and Ben decided early on not to do anything about the melted gashes in the instrument’s body.  Since it was an electric guitar, the damage to the body was cosmetic only, not affecting the guitar’s sound.  Besides, that kind of extensive plastic repair work was really beyond James’s expertise. 

But the first time James hooked the guitar up to an amp—something James had done late one night in his shed alone, as he was just worried enough about his rewiring job to not want to risk a noisy explosion in front of Ben—James’s clumsily strummed E minor chord rang out with such heartbreaking purity that he knew he couldn’t stop the job there.  As with many things James had repaired, during the previous few months the guitar had slowly become alive to him, with a soul and spirit of its own.  Once he’d finally heard its voice, he’d known he’d have to completely fix its body, too.  The alternative--letting the guitar live out the rest of its natural life with so many disfiguring scars—was just unthinkable.

Being Top Gear’s James May did have some advantages. A quick e-mail to Andy had gotten James in touch with Roger Daltrey of The Who, who not only had fond memories of being on the show, but who also, thanks to the drunk teenage vandals who had broken into his home a few years back, knew a few things about getting highly damaged vintage guitars repaired.  He gave James an introduction to Britain’s foremost instrument restorer.  After a lengthy consultation and a weekend visit to the restorer’s workshop, it was simply a matter of keeping Ben away from James’s shed for two weeks, while James applied the new, painstakingly color-matched filler polymer the restorer had recommended to the gashes, then cured it and finished it to match the original surface.  When it was done, it was almost as if the gashes had never been.  James knew in his heart that he had done the right thing.  Still, he hadn’t asked permission.  And so when Ben arrived, he hesitated for a long moment before pulling off the sheet that covered the instrument, wondering if he’d overstepped himself. 

Ben’s initial reaction seemed to confirm that he had.  The man went whiter than the veiling sheet, and stayed silent for so long James knew he had to apologize.  Before he could get out more than two or three clumsy words, though, Ben held up his hand.  “No, no, it’s all right,” he said.   “I’m not angry, James.  I’m just…surprised.”  He turned wondering eyes on James.  “How on earth did you manage it?  You said that plastic restoration really wasn’t a part of your skillset.”

“Top Gear connections,” James answered.  “One of our old Stars in a Reasonably Priced Car happened to know a guy.  It wasn’t hard to talk him into lending a hand.”  Ben nodded, looking lost.  James took a step toward him.  “Look, Ben, I really am sorry,” he said seriously.  “I didn’t tell you about it ahead of time because I wanted you to be surprised.  But I see now that I should have asked you first.”

“I _am_ surprised,” Ben answered.  “But not in a bad way, James.  Not at all.”  He traced the spot where the largest gash had been with a wondering finger. “It was my fault, you see, the accident that damaged this guitar in the first place.  I’m just not used to seeing my past mistakes erased so easily, that’s all.”

“What happened?”

“I’d rather not answer that,” Ben answered.  “Suffice it to say that it _was_ my fault—and I’ve regretted it for years.  The original owner never quite forgave me.  He tried to throw the guitar away when he first saw all the damage, but I couldn’t let that happen; I picked it up off the street before the garbage collectors could get it and took it away with me.  It’s always been in the back of my mind that one day I might be able to have it fixed, send it home.  And now…”  He swallowed hard.  “James. I’m sure I don’t even have to ask, not knowing you the way I’ve come to.  I don’t think you’d have the heart to fix the outside of something and leave the inner workings alone.  But…it _does_ play, doesn’t it?”

“’Like a choir of angels singing,’” James quoted.  “Or at least, that’s what the restorer bloke said when I visited him.  He offered to buy it off me, actually.  But he wasn’t surprised to hear that it was already spoken for.” Ben nodded, looking very preoccupied.  James cleared his throat awkwardly.  “Um.  There’s an amp on the corner worktable, if you’d like to try it out.”

Ben shook his head.  “I’m afraid I never learned how to play,” he said.  “And even if I had, somehow I don’t think the guitar’s rightful owner would be very pleased to know my hands had touched it. You, though…” He lifted his eyes to James’s, the oddly colored hazel irises filling with deep emotion.  “You, I think he’d be honored to share it with.  Play me something?”

And so James did, even though he’d never really learned how to play a guitar either, just messed around with a mate’s a few times back at Uni.  By the time he’d clumsily played the intro for “Norwegian Wood”—it came out sounding rather like “Bah, Bah, Black Sheep” instead—James’s wrist had cramped, and his fingertips were stinging.  “God.  I’m glad I studied piano.  Much easier on the hands,” he said with a laugh.

Pure silence was his only response. Ben was standing with his eyes pressed closed, his entire being radiating some old, old pain.  James put the guitar down carefully.  He spent several seconds carefully considering what he wanted to say next; it was certainly crossing a line.  And part of him knew that it was jealousy that was making him do it, an illogical possessive need to know who in Ben’s past had made him feel that much.  But he had nobler motives, too.  If James understood anything, it was the painful loneliness of having a story that couldn’t be told, a relationship that couldn’t be spoken of.  And so there was at least as much compassion as selfishness in his question.  Perhaps there was even more.  ‘This friend of yours, the guitar’s original owner,” James said.  “He was far more to you than just a friend.  Wasn’t he?”

Ben’s eyes clicked open again, looking surprised and…could it be?...even impressed.  But his voice was matter-of-fact.  “He was never my lover, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.  “Just…just a man I really, really wanted to be.”

Having shot his arrow, James didn’t know what to do with the response.  Despite all their free ranging conversation, all the stories and laughter they’d shared, it was the first time they’d discussed romantic relationships at all.  O _h god, oh god, so he really is into blokes, it wasn’t my imagination, something really might be possible after all_ sang through James’s brain, and caused an undeniable longing in his flesh; for a brief, mad moment, all he wanted to do was grab Ben and throw him against the wall for a bruising kiss.  But no.  That was not the way a proper Englishman behaved.  And it certainly wasn’t the way James May did.  There was too much at stake, far too much to lose.  Especially with Ben in the grip of some very painful memories.  James wondered: just who could the angry guitar owner have been?  He cast his mind back through all the…very scant, really…things Ben had said about his Life Before He Started Spending His Weekends in James’s Shed, and could find only one candidate.  “Richie’s foster father?”

“What?  Oh.  Good God, no,” Ben said derisively.  “The fair MacLeod was never really an option.  I may have flirted with him a bit from time to time, but that was more to get his hackles up than anything.  The man never could tell when I was being serious or just making a joke.” He sobered, finger again tracing the smooth line of the guitar.  “Joe was…Joe was different.   He had one of the kindest hearts that ever beat, and he could read me better than anyone had in…well, in a very long time.  I honestly thought…”  A heartfelt sigh.  “But in the end, the differences between us proved to be too much.  So I let him go.”

“What will you do with the guitar?  Now that it’s been fixed?”

Ben smiled wistfully.  “The only thing I can do, really.  Pack it up and send it to Seacouver…Joe owns a bar there…and hope he remembers me every now and then when he plays it.  Pray that at least a few of those memories are good.”  He turned away from the guitar and shoved his hands into his pockets, looking as shy as he had on that first day back at that pub.  “I, um, I might have another project for you, though, if you want it.  I found an old IBM Selectric typewriter in my mini store that could use some help.  It’s not valuable, but I’d like to have it put back in order.  Do you think…”

“Yes,” James said. 

***

The battered IBM typewriter was far from the last “project” Ben brought him.  Not that all of them belonged to Ben.  As time went by, he started bringing James things from friends: objects that dated from the 1920’s to the 70’s, things that were too modern to be worth going to a professional antique restorer to repair, but still too old for most current repair shops to know how to approach.  At least, Ben _said_ the things belonged to friends.  James privately had his doubts.  A surprisingly large number of the objects bore damage similar to the old guitar’s, that same strange melted-charred-exploded quality he’d found in that instrument’s wiring.  And how likely was it that so many disparate people would have items with exactly the same problem?  James figured that Ben had once lost a whole house full of goods to the same accident that had claimed the guitar—a house fire, probably, one serious enough to pull down a power line and cause some bad electrical arcs—and just didn’t want to admit it.  Although it was hard to imagine just what Ben had been doing with the 1930s dancing-ballerina-music box he claimed someone named “Amanda” really wanted him to repair.  Maybe it had once been owned by Ben’s grandmother?

One thing, though, definitely didn’t belong to Ben: the battered 1980s slide projector owned by Ben’s young friend Richie.  Mercifully, this had just been broken, rather than charred or melted or warped.  Richie murmured something sheepish about knocking it to the floor one day when he’d been “ah, you know, practicing sports” in his flat.  Now, just why a nineteen-year-old kid owned something as antiquated as a slide projector in the first place was beyond James, but he didn’t bother to ask.  By then, he’d gotten used to the never-ending parade of bygone technology coming his way from Ben and Ben’s friends.  Anyway, he got his answer when the kid came by to take his newly repaired projector home.  “Thanks, man.  I really mean it,” Richie said, sincerity plain.   “Tessa…she and Mac were the ones who, um, sort adopted me when I was a kid…she used to have all her photos developed as slides, and she left crates of the things behind when she died.  Mac thought it was time to throw them all out, but I couldn’t let that happen, so I had them all shipped here.  I found a place that will convert them into digital files for me.  But it’s pricey, and I had no idea how I was going to sort through and decide which ones to spend the money on without a working projector.  So you’ve done a really great thing for me.”

James frowned.  “Your adoptive mother still used a film camera while you were growing up?  She never switched to digital?”

“What can I say?  Tessa was the artistic type; she liked film.  Besides, some people are just old-fashioned,” Richie said with a shrug.  His eye fell across the motorcycle carburetor Sim had brought over the night before that was lying just inside James’s doorway.  “Hey!  Is that a Mitsubishi?”

“How’d you know?”

“Oh, I rebuilt my own lots of times, back when I was racing bikes instead of cars.”  Richie smiled broadly.  “Can I take a closer look?”

It turned out that Richie was almost as good at working on engines as he was at driving…good enough that James eventually introduced him to Sim and the rest of his motorcycle restoring friends.  That quickly led to another friend-of-a-friend hiring Richie to work in his garage, thus saving him from the typical teenager’s fate of working in fast food restaurants.   Not that James really believed that would have been Richie’s destiny for long.  Andy had indeed put in a good word him, and Richie was already doing quite a bit of part-time work driving for second-unit shoots, both for Top Gear and for several other BBC programs. James had no doubt that Richie could have eventually parlayed that experience into a full-time job, and then worked himself up the production ranks from there.  The kid was still starry eyed about racing, though, and no one could deny that he had potential.  So the garage work was a good compromise.  It provided a steady paycheck while still giving Richie the flexibility he needed to travel to amateur races, which he was slowly doing better and better in.  James privately tipped his hat to him, and both privately and publicly wished him luck.

More than that, actually.  As the months went by, James slowly became to depend on Richie for those motorcycle restoration projects where he needed a second pair of hands.  The kid’s fingers were still teenage-flexible and his eyes were still 20/20 sharp, something that was sadly no longer true of either James or his cronies.  The first time he asked him over, James worried that Richie’s still all-encompassing love for all things Top Gear would make the situation uncomfortable, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Riche was always genial, completely uncomplicated good company.  He never asked questions beyond the scope of the project at hand, and was as likeable and easy to be around as a well-trained golden retriever puppy.  Combined with James’s now-weekly reassembly date of smaller objects with Ben—who, James had to admit, made for _entirely_ complicated company, but was much more satisfying and stimulating for that very reason—both James’s mechanical skills and his social life were seeing quite the uptick.  Truth be told, he was happier with his life outside of working hours than he’d been in years.

Which was a very good thing.  Because James’s life during working hours was frankly starting to suck.

***

It had been an open secret for more than one series, now, that Jeremy’s marriage was on the rocks.  So, the official announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Clarkson had decided to file for divorce really didn’t come as a surprise to anyone. 

What did come as a surprise was Jeremy’s reaction.  Never exactly known for being even tempered, the man quickly became out of control.  He drank too much, slept and ate too little, and in short became as pleasant to be around as your average wounded bear.  That Jeremy _was_ wounded, down to the very heart, James had no doubt.  And he would have done anything he could to help, if Jeremy had just let him. 

But Jeremy wasn’t just turning his wounded-bear temper on the paps and whichever poor intern got the lunch order wrong that week.  He was using it on anyone who dared to reach out to him at all, often speaking with the kind of savageness that could leave someone’s soul in shreds.  Richard, after one particularly brutal verbal skirmish, stormed out of rehearsal with a face drained of all color, and stopped talking to Jeremy at all off camera.  Andy alternated between blank despair and screaming back. And James…

James did his best.  After a few unpleasant skirmishes of his own, he started following Richard’s example and began limiting the time he spent around their co-presenter, arriving to work late and leaving early. Andy accepted this with composure, since he knew it was the only way he might actually get something useable filmed.  The old, easy comradery that had once made coming to work a pure joy quickly became a thing of the past.  But whenever he and Jeremy were together James kept trying anyway.  He made every effort to ignore the worst of Jeremy’s behavior while still reaching out to him in his, admittedly clumsy, but genuinely heartfelt way.  At least he did.  Until…

Until the day that Jeremy lashed out with so much cruelty, in such a completely unforeseen and public manner, that James could no longer ignore it. 

Well.  Make that semi-public.  They weren’t in front of an audience, thank God.  It was a Sunday morning, and they were on the track filming reviews, trying to make up for time Jeremy had wasted with a temper tantrum earlier in the week.  Later, James would be very grateful that Jeremy’s tirade hadn’t happened in a studio full of fans.  Still, being utterly humiliated in front of the small handful of crew still willing to work weekends was more than bad enough.  James stayed and listened far longer than he should have…it took a while for his startled brain to truly register just what Jeremy was saying.  Once it had, he simply turned on one foot and strode away.  Not toward the Portakabin; toward his Panda.  He could hear Andy shouting “Clarkson!  Office!  NOW!” as he reached the parking lot, but it didn’t slow him down.  He just got into his car and drove.  Escape was the only thing on his mind.

At least it was until he got home and found Ben sitting on his stoop, a bag of James’s favorite Indian takeaway in his lap and an ancient cardboard box at his side.  “Hey!  There you are,” he said with a smile as James came up the walk.  “I know I’m early, but I was too excited to wait.  I stumbled across a few old wax music cylinders.  So now we can actually test out our phonograph, once we get that rotation trouble sorted…” He trailed off, staring in horror at James’s pale face.  “Good god.  What happened?”

And as that was a question James couldn’t answer just then, at least not without either screaming or starting to cry, he just shook his head helplessly and pulled out his keys.  Ben stayed silent while James let them in, moving his burdens to James’s entryway while James made for the kitchen.  Then, he followed James and found a spot to lean against the far wall…somehow, through some unknown ESP, choosing exactly the right distance to make James feel accompanied, but not hemmed in.  Ben waited for some time, while James filled his electric kettle and got down the beakers, all in the same gentle, startlingly supportive quiet.  Then, just as the water boiled, he finally spoke.  “I’d offer to go and let you be alone, James,” he said softly.  “But I couldn’t help but notice that you’re making two cups of tea.  So unless Fuskar has secretly developed opposable thumbs and started drinking out of beakers—which frankly wouldn’t surprise me much, he is your cat after all--I’m going to take that as a hint that you’d like some company.  That you’d really rather I stayed.”

James jumped a bit.  He hadn’t realized that he was preparing two cups until that very moment.  He blinked at them in confusion for a moment, then looked up at Ben, whose eyes widened when he saw…whatever it was he saw in James’s face.  He took an impulsive step forward.  “James…”

James lifted his hand, a silent plea to the other man to keep his distance.  It worked.  Ben stopped in his tracks.  James turned back to the tea mugs, poured water into them and added bags. Then he just stood with his back to Ben, his hands shaking slightly as he braced them against the counter.  “I really do put up with an awful lot, you see,” he said.

“Ah.”  Ben seemed to relax slightly, nodding as if this made every bit of sense in the world. “So.  What’s Clarkson done now?”

Startled, James whipped his around, staring at Ben over his shoulder.  “It’s that obvious it was him?”

“Well, let’s just say it was the most probable option,” Ben answered dryly.  “I read the newspapers after all, James. I know all about that last five sponsors he offended.  And I happen to be firmly plugged into the BBC watercooler gossip network, too.  Frankly, given the way he’s been acting this series, I’m amazed that you lot have managed to keep things going for this long.” James nodded heavily, and returned to staring bleakly down at the tea.  “James,” Ben repeated.  “Really. I’m starting to get worried, here.  What did Clarkson do to you?”

“He didn’t _do._ He just…said.”  James shook his head sadly.  “I’m a bloody fool to be minding it as much as I am.”

“But you are.  Minding it, I mean.”

“I shouldn’t be.  God knows, I keep trying to argue myself out of it.  But I can’t quite seem to manage.”  James took a deep breath.  “The thing is, I can put up with him making fun of my hair and my driving and my taste in clothes…that’s fine, that’s normal, that’s just part of being Jeremy’s mate.  He’d do that even if we didn’t happen to present a show together.  It’s just the way he is.”  James’s hands closed tightly over the edge of the counter.  “And I can even handle him suggesting I’m gay and a crossdresser and a secret BDSM enthusiast and god only knows what else, because that’s just taking the piss for the show.  It always gets a good shocked laugh from the audience, and anyway it’s not _real._ I know it’s not real.  It can’t be, you see.  At least the gay parts can’t be.  Because he doesn’t really see me, he doesn’t really know I’m…”  James’s voice broke.

“James. Oh, James.” 

Ben had an uncanny way of moving sometimes, of making his footsteps absolutely silent.  He did so now, crossing the kitchen to James’s side.  James, keeping his eyes resolutely focused on the beakers, wasn’t really sure how he knew he was there at all.  But he did.  He could feel the man’s approaching closeness the same way he could tell when someone was looking at him from behind, and he had to hold up his hand again.  Ben again stopped at once, for which James was grateful.  It was going to be hard enough to say the next few words as it was.  “So I can tell myself that he doesn’t mean it,” he said, voice surprisingly conversational once again as he carefully removed the teabags.  “Whenever Jeremy starts going on about that sort of thing, I can tell myself that he doesn’t mean it, because he doesn’t know.  And if he did know, he’d…well, I can tell myself that it would all be different.  Which is a total lie, probably.  But I never really intended to put it to the test.”  Ben made another soft noise of understanding.  James swallowed hard.  “So today, when Jeremy started going on about things he _does_ know about, it…it took me by surprise.  I couldn’t pretend he didn’t mean them, you see.  And it…he…”

“James.  Please just tell me what he said.”

James smiled weakly, began fussing about with a tea towel.  “Nothing all that terrible, really,” he said.  “Just a five-minute tirade about what a sad, lonely bastard I was.  How I couldn’t possibly understand what he was going through, because the only living thing I’d shared a bed with in decades was my cat.  How I was...I was…probably a eunuch, since I clearly didn’t have any normal need for love or sex at all.  And how even if I did he strongly pitied the poor bastards who might be tempted to return my warped feelings, because I’d always be too scared to…to ever actually reach out and _touch_ …”

His voice broke again on the last word.  This time James had the frightening feeling that he would never get it working again, that it had sputtered and died just like a badly tuned engine.  And once again he felt Ben approach, coming so much closer that this time he could feel the subtle warmth of his body through the back of his shirt.  “James,” Ben said softly, just behind his ear.  “James, it isn’t true.”

James shivered.  Tea completely forgotten now, he dropped the towel and picked up a sponge instead, relentlessly scrubbing the counter under his hands.  “It’s not _untrue,”_ he said roughly.  “I mean, not the actual eunuch part, thank god.  All the bits are still intact.  But he pretty much got it right, as far as my last couple of decades have gone; Fuskar genuinely has been the only living thing to share my bed since I left school.  More than twenty years now, scary as that is to contemplate.  And he…he wasn’t wrong.  About being afraid.”  James dropped his head.   “I’ve never really understood how other people manage to do it, you know.  How they manage to ignore all the risks and vulnerabilities long enough to climb into bed with someone and find out if it will work.  Especially when so many things _don’t_ work, not in the long term; what Jeremy’s going through now just proves that.  It’s not…I can’t just…I need to _know_ somebody before I…”  He slumped, utterly defeated.  “Maybe Jeremy’s right.  Maybe I really am different from everybody else.  Maybe I just don’t have normal needs.  Certainly nobody else seems to think I do.  No one else seems to _see_ …”

“James.”  Ben’s voice had roughened, lowered.  The tone alone would have made James shudder, even if he hadn’t felt Ben’s warm breath ghosting across the back of his neck.  “James. _I_ see you.”

_I see you._

For the rest of his days, James would remember those words…the gut-punching immediacy of them, and their overwhelming intimacy.  Ben reached around him, gently taking the sponge from James’s clenched fingers and placing it in the sink, and then he laid his now-damp fingers softly against the back of James’s wrist.  The touch was light—yes, so light it might have come from a feather, or maybe even a brush of Fuskar’s whiskers.  But it still affected James like a second, even stronger punch to the gut, enough so that his abdominal muscles actually contracted, bending him forward slightly over the counter for support.  “Yes,” he said huskily. “You always have, haven’t you.  Right from the very first day.”  Ben made a wordless, murmured sound of assent.  James pressed his eyes closed.  “You never let on that you knew.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“For one very simple reason, James.  Letting on that I saw you would have required letting you see me.”  Ben’s fingers brushed over his wrist again, then withdrew.  James felt their loss like a physical pain.  “And then you’d have known just how much I wanted you.”

James’s eyes flew open.  He turned around, found the other man standing so close he could count the golden flecks in the extraordinary hazel eyes.  “Would that have been a bad thing?”

Ben’s upper lip twisted wryly.  “Probably not,” he admitted.  “But I was being cautious.”

“Why?”

“Because, like you, I have several situations in my life that make it necessary for me to never truly be seen.  And that in turn made it necessary not to risk…this…” He reached up to caress James’s cheek, another light, deliberate touch that made James’s bones feel like they were turning to butter... “until I knew…until I was absolutely sure…”

God.  It was getting harder and harder to talk.  “Until you were absolutely sure of what?”  James asked, suppressing another shudder.  “That you could trust me?”

“No.”  Ben’s voice was inexpressibly sad.  “No, I’m still not entirely sure of that.”  James frown.  Ben gave him a lopsided little smile.  “Don’t take it personally.  I almost never trust anyone, not completely,” he advised.  “But I am _very_ sure about something else.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you, James May, are one of the most unique and amazing men I’ve ever met.  And that means you’re worth the risk.  Even if this all does end up being some terrible disaster.  Sharing this with you, even just for a little while, will be worth it.”  And he tilted James’s head down and kissed him on the mouth.

It was quite a kiss.

Actually, it might very well have been _the_ kiss, the one James had spent his entire lifetime waiting for.  It was slow: achingly, tantalizingly, wonderfully slow. Ben seemed more than content to take all the time James needed, leisurely savoring every new revelation of texture and taste and heat, and then finally suggesting, rather than forcing, further intimacies. Their bodies pressed together tightly as Ben’s tongue lightly explored him, first just tasting the outer surface of James’s lips, then eventually pressing lazily, languidly deeper.  It was all so perfect and gentle and slow that James knew he would embrace his facetious Top Gear nickname with new fervor, if being Captain Slow meant he got to be the captain of _this._   When Ben finally broke away, James was astonished to find that his pulse was racing, and his breath was coming in short, sharp pants.  “Ben,” he gasped out.  “I don’t know exactly what you’re expecting…but I wasn’t lying about Fuskar, you know.  There really hasn’t been anyone for me like this.  Not since I was a kid.”

“I know, James.  It’s all right.”  The smallest hint of self-mockery crept into Ben’s eyes.  “Believe me. I have more than enough experience for us both.”

A brand-new thought—that it might be just as painful to have too much sexual experience as it was to have too little—suddenly flickered across James’s mind.  “Yes, but,” James started, only to be distracted by Ben’s leaning forward and placing his lips against his neck.  He gripped the counter with his free hand.  “But I really don’t know what I’m doing, and I’ll probably be rubbish, and…”

“James.”  The lovely dark voice was ever so slightly exasperated.  “I’m not Clarkson.”  James frowned, the start of an angry _yes-of-course-I-know-that-you-idiot_ on his lips.  It died the moment Ben lifted his head, and he saw the aching desire in Ben’s eyes.  “I’m not Clarkson,” Ben repeated softly.  “Or Hammond, or Wilman, or your parents, or any of the other oh-so-conveniently blind people in your life.  I actually do see _you_.”  He picked up James’s hand and pressed it to the center of his chest, a gesture of astonishing sweetness…and astonishing heat.  James gasped, as the warmth of the other man’s skin spread over his palm.  “I see you, and I want you, and I think I can give you what you need,” Ben finished.  “If you’ll let me try.  Will you?”

“Oh, god, _yes,”_ James breathed.  And kissed him again.

No more slowness now.  Urgency swept through them both like wildfire—at least, it swept through James. Ben seemed to stay astonishingly in control, chuckling darkly whenever frustration forced James into emitting an embarrassingly needy whine.  But he let James pull him out of the kitchen, and let him navigate him through the hall and up the stairs.  They both shed clothing as they climbed, leaving their jackets at the foot of the stairs, their trousers at the top, their shoes somewhere in between.  By the time they made it to the bedroom, both James and Ben were only in their pants…and Ben quickly made short work of those, too, slipping them off James’s legs the moment they hit the bed and tossing them, along with his own, to land somewhere unheeded in the dark.  The luscious feel of skin-on-skin was so overwhelming that for long moments, James failed to notice that he’d forgotten to turn on the bedroom light.  When he did, he started to stretch out an arm towards his bedside table lamp, only to have Ben seize his hand and bring it back.  “But I want to look at you,” James protested, holding back a groan as Ben’s hot tongue began licking over his collarbones.  “I—oh, god—I do, Ben.  I really do...”

“I know you do,” said the voice in the dark.  “And someday, perhaps, I’ll even let you.  But not tonight.”  The talented lips quickly kissed their way down James’s chest to his groin, and then a pair of equally talented, disembodied hands suddenly gathered up his cock. There was quick upstroke, a twist, then an explosion of pressure and wetness and heat.  James groaned from his very heart and bucked his hips uncontrollably, unable to resist thrusting into what could only be Ben’s hot, completely merciless mouth.  It only lasted for a few moments…and then Ben released him, letting James surge helplessly into the air a few times before he got control of himself and slumped backward, ridiculously grateful for the chance to regain his breath.  “But not tonight,” the voice repeated darkly.  “Tonight, I want to concentrate on you.  Discover what you need, and then make sure that you get it.  You’ll let me have that, won’t you James?”  And now the wonderful voice sounded slightly vulnerable.  “You’ll let me take you completely apart, and trust me to put you back together afterward?”

“Yeees….ah, yes, I….”  It wasn’t so much a matter of consenting anymore as it was a matter of not being able to do anything else. James could no more have resisted the pleasure Ben was raining down on him than he could have resisted his heart’s next beat.  He surged and thrust up into the dark.  Ben’s hands found his where they were fisting helplessly in the sheets near his hips.  The strong fingers twined through James’s even as the wonderful mouth once again descended. 

And James completely came apart.

***

_Oh, my god.  What have I done?_

From everything James had ever heard and read, this was not an uncommon thought to have, waking up next to someone you’d just had sex with for the first time.  But it was far from the first thought James would have chosen to have, waking up next to the first sexual partner he`d had since he was a teen…and it especially wasn’t the first thought he wanted to have waking up next to Ben _._ Not sweet, good-hearted, shockingly sexy Ben, who had done nothing but treat James with kindness, not to mention an erotic passion James was sure he’d remember to his dying day.  Still, when he woke to see Ben lying next to him, breathing peacefully with his rather large nose poking up over the edge of the sheet, that was the first thing that crossed his mind.  _Oh my God,_ James thought in alarm.  _Just what have I done?_

He wasn’t given much time alone with his panic.  As if sensing James’s waking, Ben stirred.  His hazel eyes flickered open, and as his gaze swept knowingly over James’s own sheet-covered form, his smile broadened into a grin.  “Well,” he said, the humor in his voice not detracting from the obvious tenderness there, too.  “That was the best bad sex I’ve had in many a long year.  Thank you, James.”

_Bad sex?_

Mind now panicked in a completely different way, James cast his mind back over the previous evening, trying to figure out just where he had gone wrong.  It certainly hadn’t felt like bad sex to James.  Granted, he didn’t have much to compare it to, but that first orgasm in Ben’s mouth…it had been shattering.  It had taken James some time to recover enough to reciprocate, but eventually he’d managed, and if he hadn’t exactly matched Ben’s skill he thought he’d done respectably enough.  In fact…he blushed now a little as he remembered…he’d been so hungry, so eager to explore every inch of Ben’s skin, that the other man had been both squirming and loudly cursing his encouragement by the time James got around to actually sucking his cock.  Maybe that was where James had failed him?  But then again…and James squirmed guiltily, feeling a rush of new excitement as he remembered...from the way Ben had shouted when the salty bitter heat spilled into James’s mouth, James’s rusty attempt at oral sex couldn’t have been _that_ awful.  Or could it?  “Bad sex,” he repeated dimly.  “I’m sorry.  I guess I wasn’t…but I really did try…”

Instantly Ben’s hand was over his, comforting him even as his eyes sparkled mischievously.  “I didn’t mean bad for me, you arse,” he said, with so much warm affection James couldn’t even begin to take offense.  “ _I_ enjoyed myself thoroughly.  In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s still some evidence of my enjoyment crusted on the bottom of your chin.”  James jerked, and flushed, and clapped a hand over his chin.  Ben laughed at him outright, then pulled himself up and handed James a tissue from the nightstand box.  “I had a wonderful time,” he repeated, settling lazily against the headboard while James scrubbed the flakey mess away.  “But that doesn’t mean that you did.” 

“I—“

“It’s all right, James.  I already know that I completely failed to give you…everything I wanted to give you.  And I think I finally figured out why.”  Ben gazed at him intently.  “So.  Which one is it?”

“Which one is what?”

“Which of your co-presenters did you fall so completely in love with that no one else will ever get a chance?  Clarkson?  Or Hammond?”

Oh.

James froze in mid-dab, as pinned by those knowing eyes as a moth pinned to cork.  He certainly _felt_ pinned, helpless to move a single muscle.  But inwardly, his mind raced.  His thoughts tumbled together in a whirlwind:  a rueful _well, I did finally want to be really seen by someone, didn’t I,_ followed by a horrible _cock, so that’s why I woke up wondering what I’d done. I was regretting that it was Ben who broke my celibate streak and not one of them._ And twisted up in those thoughts was the embarrassing certainty that Ben had seen all this so clearly; he was watching James with an intensity that told James if he wasn’t exactly reading every thought, he was certainly coming close.  (How _did_ the man do that, anyway?) For a brief, shameful moment, James thought about continuing to prevaricate, but decided not to. Sometimes, there isn’t any point in pretending.  He settled back into the pillows with a sigh.  “Would you believe both?”

“Yes.”  Ben nodded gravely.  “I certainly would, James.”

And sometimes, all it takes is two tiny sentences to change everything, to rearrange the entire world as you know it.  Ben’s voice was absolutely calm, matter-of-fact.  Even warm with gentle good humor.  But his very matter-of-factness was unnerving.  James felt his face turn bright red.  “Oh, cock,” he said aloud.  And promptly pulled the covers over his head.

“James?”  James didn’t answer.  “James!”  Ben attempted to pull the quilt away.  James held on fast.  An appallingly childish bedroom scuffle ensued, Ben trying to uncover him, James steadfastly refusing to be uncovered…a scuffle that Ben shortly won through the completely underhanded means of rolling onto James, pinning his legs beneath his own, and sneaking a hand under the quilt so he could tickle James unmercifully.  James was forced to let the quilt go, and he emerged with an even redder face—the sudden memory of just how Ben had discovered that he was especially ticklish over that particular rib severely deepening his embarrassment.  “You utter, utter idiot,” Ben said…but it was said with great affection.  James couldn’t mistake it; Ben’s face was only a few inches away, an intimate distance that allowed for no misinterpretation.  “That was the first time you’ve ever said it out loud to someone else, I take it?” Ben said sympathetically.

James went boneless.  “First time I’ve ever said it out loud at all,” he said, defeated.  “First time I even really let myself _think_ it.  Bloody hell, Ben.  How the hell could you know when I couldn’t even admit it to myself?  Was I really that obvious?”

“Just to me,” Ben said softly.  “I happen to very good at watching people, you see.  And I’ve been watching you very, very closely, these last few months.”  For a second, a touch of sadness entered his voice, but before James could react, Ben rolled away, regarding James from the far safer distance of the next pillow.  “If it helps, I don’t think anyone else has really caught on.  I certainly don’t think either Clarkson or Hammond has, yet.”

“No,” James agreed, feeling his heart gave a painful crack as he did.  “And they never will.”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it obvious?  It’s not really the sort of thing either of them was built to notice.  Not coming from another man.”  James sunk even lower into the pillows.  “It’s hopeless, isn’t it.  _I’m_ hopeless.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Wouldn’t you?” James stared at him incredulously.  “I’m in love with my two best mates, Ben.  My two best _straight_ mates.  My two best straight mates, with whom I happen to present a TV show popular enough to keep us surrounded by interested press.  So even if… even if the universe did completely rearrange itself and they both suddenly decided they weren’t so rigidly straight-and-narrow after all, we still could never…” He broke off.  “And the worst thing?  The very worst thing?  Is that I am so far gone, apparently, that I’m willing to let the whole mess get between me and the smart, kind, utterly sexy and actually genuinely gay man I just spent the night with.”  He closed his eyes, painfully.  “I’m sorry, Ben.  I really am an utter, utter idiot.”

“No.”  There was an emotional catch in Ben’s voice.  “No, James.  You’re just someone who was lucky enough to find something very special, that’s all.  And then was smart enough not to let it go.”  James opened his eyes, glancing at Ben incredulously.  Ben gave him a tiny shrug.  “For the record,” he said, “it hasn’t just been you that I’ve been watching these last few months, James.  Obviously, I haven’t been observing your two partners in crime as often, or as intently.  But since watching you often means watching them, I…” He cleared his throat awkwardly.  “Well.  Let’s just say that I don’t think the whole situation is as hopeless as you seem to believe.”

James frowned.  He started to speak…and was interrupted by a thunderous banging on the front door downstairs.  “JAMES!”

The two men in the bed froze.  “Oh, god,” Ben groaned.  “That’s not…”

“Clarkson,” James said resignedly.  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.” There was another flurry of banging, vehement enough to make both men wince.  James shook his head.  “The bastard never could be bothered to actually find my bloody doorbell button.” 

“James!” came another shout from outside.  “James!  Open up!”  More banging.  “I know you’re in there, James.  I can see your damn Panda in the drive.  Just let me in.  I’m fucking sorry, okay?  I’ve been trying to get you on your mobile all damn night, so I could tell you.”  The voice became more desperate.  “Please, James.  I know you’re mad, but I drove all the way out here just to check on you.  Just open the door and let me know if you’re okay.  Then you can slam it in my face again however many times you want.  All right?”

The two men in the bed stared at each other helplessly.  “ _Has_ he been trying to phone all night?”  Ben asked quietly.

“Don’t know,” James said honestly.  “I turned my mobile off when I left the track.  It’s easy enough to check, I suppose.  I just need to…”  He started to reach for the bedside table where he habitually kept his phone overnight, then winced.  “Ah.”

“Problem?”

“I left my mobile in my trouser pocket.”  James glanced around the room.  There was a quite astonishing array of clothing scattered about…his shirt, Ben’s shirt, even a wayward sock that had somehow gotten caught on the third shelf up on the bookcase in the corner.  “But my trousers…”

“Are somewhere near the top of the stairs right now, if memory serves correctly,” Ben finished for him.  “Right next to mine, probably.  We were both a bit …impatient…last night.”  He glanced down at James, hazel eyes so incredibly sympathetic and _fond_ –fond of _James--_ that James mentally kicked himself.  This is what his treacherous heart was making him give up.  This man, this understanding.  And for what? “What do you want to do, James?” Ben asked quietly.

“Don’t know,” James said honestly.  “I’m tempted to make him stay outside until I’ve had a cup of tea.  But he’ll probably just batter the door down if I try.”  Another barrage of knocking and shouted repetitions of James’s name seemed to give the truth to this statement. James sighed, and started to get up.  Before he could manage to even shove down the covers, though, there came a sound even more disturbing than the knocking.  Quiet…followed by the unmistakable sound of James’s front door creaking open. 

Ben looked at James incredulously.  “He has a key?”

James pressed his own eyes closed together painfully.  “He knows where I keep my spare hidden,” he said.  “Fuck.”

“Indeed.”  They both heard a slightly more tentative “James?” coming from the front hall, then a rush of footsteps running up the stairs.  “I’d offer to slip discretely out the back door,” Ben said.  “But I think he’ll be up here before I can.  We left enough clothes scattered over the stairs for it to still be suspicious, anyway.  But I’m willing to give hiding under the bed a try, if you want.”

“No,” James said resolutely.  “No more hiding.” And he bent forward and brushed Ben’s lips with his own, just as Jeremy arrived in the regrettably wide-open door.

It would have been funny, if hadn’t so emphatically not been.  What with the open door, the kissing lovers caught in the act, and Jeremy cast as The Astonished Onlooker, the whole thing eerily resembled a 1970s sitcom farce.  James hadn’t noticed before, but fate had even seen to it that Ben’s neat blue boxers were hanging from James’s bookcase, just a shelf below the abandoned sock.  All they needed was for Hammond to pop out from behind a curtain wearing a frilly tutu and the scene would have been complete.

But not even the world's most gifted comedic writer could have adequately scripted Jeremy's face.  “James,” Jeremy said dimly.  “There’s a naked man in your bed.”

Ben snorted.  “Oh, well done, Clarkson.”  He broke away from James and stretched back out on the bed, placing his arms lazily behind his head.  “There’s that sharp journalistic eye the readers of _The Sun_ and _The Sunday Times_ have all come to expect.  Bravo.”

Jeremy ignored this utterly.  He even managed to ignore the very handsome expanse of sculpted chest Ben’s change of posture had revealed, which James himself found rather difficult; he was beginning to really regret not arguing more heartily for Ben to turn on the lights.  (What on earth did the man do to develop muscles like that, anyway?  Surely television research wasn’t that athletic an occupation.)  But to Jeremy, it was as if Ben wasn’t even there at all.  He wavered slightly, but his eyes remained focused on James, to the exclusion of everything else in the room. “James,” he said again, even more dimly.  “ _Why_ do you have a naked man in your bed?”

James sighed.  “Don’t be daft, Clarkson,” he said tiredly.  “It’s not that hard to figure out.  It’s exactly what it looks like, after all.”

“I don’t know, James,” Ben said.  “Let’s analyze this for a moment, shall we?”  He stretched again, languidly--now that the moment of discovery had come and gone, he seemed almost obscenely at ease.  Even, James was mildly disturbed to see, heartily amused.  “In Clarkson’s simple mind, I’m probably just here to…I don’t know, to model for your watercolors, or to help you change an extra stubborn sparkplug or something.  It can’t possibly be what it looks like.”  And suddenly all Ben’s amusement vanished, replaced by something cold and dark and so very, very angry that James involuntarily drew back.  “Because having sex?  That’s not something that _eunuchs_ do.” 

He delivered the last words brutally, savage as a sword thrust, and nearly as effective.  Jeremy actually winced.  He suddenly looked more ashamed of himself than James had ever seen…and James, amid his own embarrassment and anger and shock, suddenly felt the tiniest glimmer of hope.  “Right,” he said briskly.  “I think this situation calls for a cup of tea.  With clothes on, preferably.”  He started to pull back the blanket.  Neither Jeremy nor Ben moved.  “Jeremy.  Perhaps you could wait in the kitchen?  Unless you want even more of a show than you’ve already gotten.”

Jeremy turned bright red. “Oh.  Yes.  Er…yes.”  And he spun on his heel and all but ran down the stairs.

James and Ben began dressing.  It was a process that was slowed considerably by the fact that they both kept having to make short trips to retrieve various articles of clothing…well, James of course had plenty of spares in his wardrobe, but it seemed rude to make Ben go in search of his trousers alone.  It was also slowed by the way that James kept sneaking surreptitious glances at Ben’s shockingly fine body, wondering how he could possibly have gone to bed with an Olympic-athlete-cum-underwear-model without ever noticing.  He kept trying to put together bits of Ben’s body with things he’d felt in the dark—match _that_ muscle with _that_ remembered moment of skin brushing over his—and the result was so distracting that it took him five tries to do up his zip.  Heaven only knew how long it would have taken him to manage his shirt buttons if Ben hadn’t suddenly turned to him, amusement plain.  “You’re ogling,” he said.

“Ah.  Yes.  Sorry,” said James.  Then—because Ben’s expression went from fondly amused to very, very pointed as he swept his own eyes over James from head to toe:  “Er.  You’re ogling me, too, I think.”  Ben nodded.  “Um.  Why?”

“Two reasons,” Ben answered.  He was almost fully dressed now, having pulled on both boxers and trousers, with just a handful of shirt buttons of his own left to do.  James witnessed him doing them up with a keen feeling of loss.  “First, because you’re a very attractive man, James, well worth ogling at any opportunity.  And second…”  He buttoned his top button, let his hand drop with a sigh.  “Because I rather suspect this will be the last chance I ever get to do it.  Unless I’m wrong, and you weren’t just trying to come up with a delicate way to ask me to leave?”

“Erm…” James flushed.  Again.  Damn.  “I do think it would be better if I handled Jeremy on my own, Ben.”

“As I suspected.  Tea for two, alone.”  Ben sat down on the bed, started to pull on his recovered socks.  “Don’t worry about it, James.  I’m not going to intrude.  But I do have…a few reservations, about leaving you alone with him.”

He sounded fiercely protective.  “Reservations?” James said, startled.  “It’s just Jeremy, Ben.”

“James.”  Ben rolled his eyes.  “Yes, it’s just Jeremy.  Jeremy _Clarkson._   The man who sent you home in such a state last night that you were actually willing to break a near-lifetime of celibacy just to grab some inadequate solace with _me_.” James felt a keen rush of shame.  Ben paused in mid sock-pull, looking up at James searchingly.  “Listen, James.  In this culture, coming out of the closet to anyone, at any time, can be very difficult.  Coming out for the first time to the coworker you’ve secretly been in love with for years, especially when that coworker is Jeremy Clarkson…a man not exactly known for his warm fuzzy personality or his ability to embrace diversity…well.  That takes that difficulty and cranks it up to unprecedented levels.”  He let his now-covered foot drop to the floor.  “I just don’t want you to be hurt, James.  Not any more than is inevitable, at least.”

It was…kind.  Coming from a man he had, yes, essentially just used for comfort, it was so kind it almost took James’s breath away.  And Ben was right.  Looked out from the outside, this next few minutes had all the elements one needed for a disaster of truly explosive proportions. 

The thing was…what they had, him and Clarkson and Hammond? It _always_ looked like that, from the outside.  And James kept thinking about the look on Jeremy’s face when he first burst in.  He’d been shocked, yes.  But not disgusted.  Nor angry nor even mildly afraid, which was what James had always dreaded the most, the times he’d let himself picture Jeremy learning his secret.  That Jeremy would become afraid of him.  Would see him as a stranger he could no longer trust.  “You don’t have to worry,” James said thoughtfully, and wondered why he was so certain of that, on a morning when he really could be forgiven for not being certain of anything.  “He won’t hurt me, Ben.”

Ben studied his face intently for a moment, then nodded and let his eyes drop.  “Good.  Because if he does?  If he ever dares to lay a finger on you, or says _one word_ that makes you feel you’re less than you are?” He stood up, tugging his shirt into place with an almost military efficiency.  “He’ll have to answer to me.”

And the thing was…James was sure Ben meant it.  It wasn’t the hollow cliché most people meant when they said such things, nor even the I’ll-help-you-key-his-car-if-he-dumps-you threat of a good friend.  There was a dark flash in Ben’s eyes that made James think Ben had just offered to disembowel Jeremy on his behalf and then help him bury the body.  He shivered.  “Thanks,” he said. 

Ben nodded and started patting his pockets for his keys, the unmistakable gesture of a man getting ready to leave.  And realizing that, realizing that this strange, beautiful man was about to walk out of his life possibly forever with so much left unsaid, James reached for him.  He pulled Ben close and kissed him with everything he had in him, hoping to communicate something of what he felt…and he must have succeeded.  Because when the kiss ended, Ben held on for a long moment with his forehead pressed into James’s.  When he did break away, his eyes were sparkling.  “Well,” he said mischievously.  “That was the best bad kiss I’ve…”

“Had in a very long time, yes,” James finished for him.  “It was bad?”

“Only because it was a goodbye, James.  Only because it was a goodbye.”  Ben pecked him quickly on the lips and stepped away.  “Be well, James,” he said.  And the he disappeared out the doorway, down the stairs.

Which left James staring rather bemusedly around the wreck of his bedroom, wondering what exactly he was meant to do next.  He waited until he heard the door open and softly shut again, telling him that Ben had let himself out.  Which just left Jeremy to deal with, presumably waiting impatiently in the kitchen below.  James sighed and started down to him.  He really did need that cup of tea.

He’d expected that he’d have to make it himself.  But much to his surprise, Jeremy had already brewed two cups…and had even done it properly for once, pre-warming the beakers and actually giving the bags enough time to steep, which he normally couldn’t be arsed to do.  James took the cup in silence and breathed in the fragrance like the ambrosia it was, waiting for…he wasn’t sure what.  It would be just like Jeremy to pick now of all times to go speechless on him, the contrary cock.  And thereby leave James with all the burden of figuring out what to say first. 

But again, Jeremy surprised him.  He let James savor his first sip, then broke the silence himself.  “So.  You’ve got a boyfriend, then.”

It was unexpected enough that James swallowed his tea the wrong way, and had to cough for several moments before his airway cleared.  He’d expected Jeremey’s first words to be more the along the lines of “So.  You really are a gayist, then,” if not something infinitely more offensive like “So.  You’re a fudgepacker,” instead. The fact that Jeremy was choosing to focus on the _relationship_ rather than the _homosexual_ part of what’d he’d seen upstairs was immensely reassuring.  Reassuring enough that James felt he could actually tell the truth. “No,” he said resolutely.  “Ben’s not my boyfriend, Jez.”

And now Jeremy looked bewildered.  “But that _was_ that Adamson bloke you’re always going on about, wasn’t it?” he said.  “The one you’ve been seeing nearly every weekend for months now.  The one you’ve been fixing all the…the stuff…with.”  At James’s startled look, Jeremy ran his hands through his hair agitatedly.  “For god’s sake, James, I do pay _some_ attention when you talk about your days off.”

James put his tea down.

He didn’t know why.  It was such a tiny thing, this admission that Jeremy had paid some attention to him, enough to know Ben’s name.  Too small, really, to attach any importance to.  It didn’t mean that James still wasn’t essentially invisible to Jeremy in every way that counted.  It didn’t mean…But a baby sunrise was beginning to dawn in James’s heart anyway, one that made his stomach flutter and the skin at the tips of his fingers tingle.  He found it very difficult to keep a dopey smile from creeping onto his face.  “Do you now?”

“Yes,” Jeremy asserted.  He dropped down unhappily into one of James’s kitchen chairs.  “Fuck, James.  You know I didn’t really mean anything I said yesterday, don’t you?  I just said all that because…because…” He trailed off, bit down on his lip.  “Well, anyway,” he started again hopelessly.  “I don’t really think you’re a eunuch, James.  And…and…that Adamson is a good-looking bloke.”  He shrugged, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to say, as if Ben’s attractiveness was simply a fact of nature that no one with eyes could be expected to miss, not even completely straight car show hosts.  “He might even be able to give Hammond a run for his money when he smiles.” 

Oh, god.  It was getting harder not to smile by the moment.  “You think so?”

“Well, yeah,” Jeremy said.  “Especially if you like the brainy type.  Which, you know.  You do.”  He shoved himself up out of the chair, began pacing uncomfortably around the kitchen.  “Plus he likes old books and history and all those other things you like.  And he drives a Panda even older than yours.  You’re practically a match made in heaven, James.  Not like you and…” Jeremy stopped abruptly, his face going pink. 

“Not like…” James prompted, confused.  Jeremy just shook his head helplessly.  “Not like me and _who,_ Jez?”

Jeremy glared at him, with as much frustration and consternation as if James had suddenly grown two heads.  “Not like you and _me,”_ he said. Then he dropped back into the chair.  And covered his face in his hands.

And suddenly that growing sunrise in James’s heart grew up, got big enough to illuminate the entire world.  He understood.  He really did.  “Oh, bloody Nora,” he said.  “So that’s it, then.  That’s the whole reason why you acted like such an utter bastard at the track yesterday.  You knew I was going to meet Ben, and…”

Jeremy shifted uneasily.  “Not him,” he interrupted defensively.  “I didn’t know for sure it was him.  You just said you wanted to leave early to meet _someone._ ”

“That’s right,” James said thoughtfully.  Mentally he replayed their time at the track the previous afternoon, the fatal few moments before Jeremy’s tirade. “I said something about wanting to finish up the filming—filming YOU kept bollocking up, by the way—because I was meeting someone and didn’t want to be late.  You flipped me off and went for a cigarette.  I thought you were just being a bastard, trying to prove to the world that you were Top Gear’s true star and that my time wasn’t important at all.  And when you got back…that’s when you lashed out.”  Jeremy squirmed.  “You cock,” James said affectionately.  “You utter, utter cock.  You really never have gotten past the mental age of five, have you?  The way to tell someone you like them is NOT to pull their pants down and jeer at them in public, Jeremy.” 

“I—“ Jeremy started, and gave up.  He seemed completely speechless.

James snorted. “Leave it to Jeremy Clarkson to think that the appropriate way to react to suddenly being jealous of someone’s sex life was to accuse them of not having one at all.  That was the whole problem, wasn’t it?  That you _were_ jealous.  Because you…you wanted me for yourself.”  He looked at Jeremy searchingly.  “Jez.  How long has this been going on?”

Jeremy laughed hollowly.  “From about five minutes into filming our first episode together.”

“You never once said anything.  All these years…not one single thing.”

“I was _married,_ James.”

“And now you’re not.”

“No.  I’m not.  But it doesn’t really matter.”  Heavily, awkwardly, Jeremy once again struggled out of his too-small chair.  “It doesn’t matter.  Because whatever I’ve said, whatever I might have let myself think…you’ve obviously found someone.  Someone…someone good for you.”  He gestured blindly toward the kitchen door.  “I’ll go now,” he said.  “Give me a week and I can be a good mate and meet you both at the pub for a drink some night.  Or you can invite him to the end-of-series party, if you want; I’ll have my head back together again once the filming’s done.  I won’t get drunk and do something stupid then.  Just…I need a little bit of time to get used to things first, okay?”  He looked pleadingly at James.  “Okay?”

And now James was shaking his head again, this time at just how grossly they’d managed to misunderstand each other.  “The end-of-series party, huh,” he said.  “Jeremy, if I bring a male date there, the entire world will be reading about it the next morning.  You know what the press will make of it.”

“Don’t care,” Jeremy said staunchly.  “We’ll ride it out somehow or other.  I--”  He bit down on his lip uncomfortably.  “Being in love’s _important_ , James. I don’t want you to feel you have to hide it.”

“No,” James agreed thoughtfully.  “Neither do I.”  He took a deep breath.  “As it happens, though, it won’t be an issue,” he heard himself say.  “Ben really isn’t my boyfriend, Jeremy.”

Was that hope he saw in Jeremy’s eyes?  “He’s not?”

“No.  Last night was the first night we ever spent together.”  He took another deep breath.  “And it will definitely be the last.”

And now Jeremy looked puzzled.  “Why?”

“Because, you muppet, he figured out pretty quickly that I’d much rather have spent it with you.”  James stood up, stepped in close, and grabbed Jeremy by the back of the neck.  And before Jeremy could make a sound or even think about getting away, he kissed him.  Hard.

Well. Hard only for the first couple of heartbeats, the ones when shock held Jeremy completely still, the ones when James wondered sarcastically if the pressure of his lips was the only thing keeping the taller man from falling over.  James had to keep it hard then, for fear Jeremy would faint or otherwise slip away.  But the shock passed.  Jeremy’s arms came around James’s back…so strong, so right.  And suddenly they were kissing in earnest.

It wasn’t the best kiss the world had ever seen.  Compared to the kisses he’d shared last night with Ben, it was pretty damn awful, actually.  Jeremy was the oddest combination of hesitant and over-eager, and he used his tongue with so much crazy sloppiness that James had the hysterical feeling he was even more out of practice with kissing than James had been.  Even so, it was perfect.  Completely and utterly perfect.  Jeremy said nothing when James broke away, took his hand, and led him up the stairs; he did nothing when James made him wait outside the bedroom while he changed the sheets, except perhaps to flush even a little more intently when he realized the reason why.  Still, for once in his life he kept quiet, and stayed quiet until James had pulled him through the door to the now completely spotless bed and started taking off his shirt.  Then, Jeremy spoke cautiously, even as his eyes followed the motions of James’s hands with all the intensity of a starving man.  “James,” he said.  “You do know that I’ve never…”

“I know,” James nodded.  “We’ll figure it out together, Jez.”

And they did.

***

Much, much later…so much later that the twilight was beginning to fall, cloaking the bedroom in strange, hard to see shadows…James spoke.  “Jez?”

“Hmmm?”

“You do know that I’m in love with Hammond too, right?”

There was a long silence.  Then:  “I know, James.  So am I.”  A hand tightened around James’s.  “We’ll just have to figure out a way to make that work, as well.”

And they did that, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**_~January 2014~_ **

It was almost three years later to the day that James picked up the morning paper and read about Richard Ryan’s death.

He hadn’t seen the kid in more than two years.  For reasons James didn’t quite understand, Richie’s racing career had never taken off…but that hadn’t seemed to matter much, as he was in high demand now as a stunt driver.  Courted by Hollywood and all kinds of international film companies, Richie had long ago kissed working for Top Gear’s second unit a fond goodbye.  When James first saw the unmistakably youthful face printed above the paper’s center fold with the headline “TRAGIC DEATH IN LAMBETH”, his first instinct was that one of Richie’s movie jobs had gone horribly wrong.  Surely, some idiot stunt coordinator or car maintenance guy had screwed up, made a mistake bad enough to have resulted in the kid’s death… 

But that wasn’t what happened.  Richie had died on foot in a derelict city park, attempting to save a twelve-year-old girl from the hopped-up meth addict who’d just stolen her purse.  The girl’s purse had been empty, save for a bus pass and a tube of lip gloss; the meth head had taken offense.  He’d pulled a gun.  Richie had shoved his way in between him and the girl and attempted to take it.  And that was that.

The paper lauded Richie-- “A foreigner to our shores” --as a hero, and featured plenty of sidebars with the usual political protests: people calling for stronger gun laws, people calling for fewer gun laws so the law abiding could carry and protect themselves, people wanting more police officers on the streets and prisons built for drug offenders, people wanting fewer prisons and more job training and drug rehab.  James’s eye moved over the words automatically without taking any of them in.  His hands were shaking subtly when Richard walked into the Portakabin, saw the paper, and did a double take.  “Hey,” he said, frowning.  “Isn’t that…”

“Richie Ryan,” James said dully.  “He used to work for us.”

“That’s right!  The kid who almost became the new Stiggy after Collins.  I remember him now.  What’s he done to grab the headlines?”  Richard grabbed the paper out of James’s unresisting hands.  His face fell.  “Oh, bloody hell,” he said feelingly. 

“Yes.”  James wandered to the window.

He couldn’t even begin to process it.  If there was one adjective to describe Richie Ryan, it was _alive_.  The kid had been so alive he’d practically sparkled with it, lit up every room he came into with his own unique brand of American vitality.  Behind him, James heard a subtle rustling sound as Richard put the paper down.  Then Richard came up behind him, pressing his face into James’s back and wrapping his arms around his waist.  They’d discovered, during the last few years, that Richard was by far the most empathic member of their threesome—the one best able to know what the other two were feeling, and the one most gifted at offering comfort when needed.  He did so now, wrapping James’s frozen midsection completely up in the warm, strong circle of his arms. “James, I’m so sorry,” he murmured into the back of James’s shirt.  “You two used to hang out together on the weekends sometimes, didn’t you?  Fix up old motorcycles and such?”

“Used to,” James agreed. “We haven’t for several years.  I got busy, then he got busy, and…you know how these things work.  We lost touch.”  As was natural, when Top Gear’s growing popularity had catapulted James so completely into international stardom, just as Richie’s own career was carrying him in a completely opposite direction.  Then, too, Richie had been Ben’s friend, practically his family in some odd way James had recognized but never understood.  And Ben was…well.  Not forbidden territory, exactly; not even Jeremy was enough of a control freak to have stopped James from staying friends with Ben if he’d really wanted to, awkward as that may have proved.  But starting one’s first sexual relationship in middle age is a fragile, delicate thing, especially when that relationship involves three people instead of two. James hadn’t wanted to put even more of a strain on things by repeatedly throwing his one and only one-night stand in the other two’s faces. 

So he and Ben had drifted as well…without any hard feelings at all, James thought, though it was hard to know for sure.  He’d seen Ben from a distance from time to time at the BBC offices, and once, memorably, at a BAFTA afterparty.  Downton Abbey was becoming a bigger phenomenon with each and every season, and James suspected that Ben’s sharp eye and attention to historic detail was part of the reason why.  But Ben had never once tried to speak with James.  He’d just nodded at James across the very crowded room and raised his glass in silent salute, presumably acknowledging Top Gear’s latest award.  James didn’t know for sure.  He’d nodded back, before letting himself get swept away by Richard and Jeremy’s cheerful, drunken revelry.  And to be truthful, he’d been just as glad not to have to confront the man directly. 

Now, though…James looked down at Richie’s picture, took in again the smiling face, and all the walls he’d so carefully constructed between that part of his life and this suddenly crumbled.  “I have to call Ben,” he said.  “He and Richie were so close.”

“Close?” Richard echoed softly into James’s back.  “Like…close-close?  The way the three of us are close?” 

James nodded.  That wasn’t it, of course, or at least he didn’t think it was.  But since he couldn’t put into words just what Ben and Richie’s relationship had been, it seemed the easiest way to explain.  Richard let out deep, long breath, and James knew he was thinking of how he would feel if he’d lost either Jeremy or James.  “Then you’d better call right away,” he said.  “Want some privacy?” 

James shook his head, and so Richard stayed where he was, arms still firmly around James’s middle while James took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.  Funny, how he’d always been meaning to delete Ben’s info, but had never quite gotten around to it.  It wasn’t sentimentality; James was just the sort of person that would let years go by without thinning his contacts list down.  God, he probably still had Richie’s number, too.  The thought made him gulp, and he did his best to suppress it, pressing the phone more firmly to his ear.  Whatever Ben was feeling now, the last thing he needed was James’s awkwardness.

But Ben didn’t answer the phone.

It rang only three times, before a curt automated voice informed James that the number was no longer in service.  Frowning, James looked down, double checked that he’d selected Ben’s name correctly from the gargantuan list, and redialed.  The same thing happened.  By the third repetition of this, Richard had stretched up onto his tip-toes, looking over James’s shoulder at the phone with concern.  “Problem?” he said, and when James just shook his head worriedly, he rested his chin on James’s shoulder.  “He probably just changed his number, James,” he said comfortingly.  “Maybe you can get him at work, instead.”

This was a good idea…although James didn’t have Ben’s direct work number, and never had.  He spent the next five minutes chasing around and around in circles through the BBC’s notoriously complicated automated phone tree, until Richard cleared his throat, pointedly took the phone away, and somehow managed to press the buttons necessary to reach a real live human being.  As this human being was…judging by the giggle that floated from the tiny speaker when Richard explained who he was…both highly impressionable and a dedicated Richard Hammond fan, it didn’t take him long to coax the appropriate information out of her.  He even got her to transfer the call directly to Ben’s PA’s personal mobile. While James was still reeling from this…since when had Ben risen high enough in the BBC hierarchy to rate a full-time PA of his own?...Richard explained the situation to the new voice, and frowned thunderously.  “Right,” he said.  “I see.  Would you mind repeating that to my mate James, please?  He’s an old friend of Adamson’s, and he’s sitting right here…”

James took the phone, where a voice even sharper than the pre-recorded one informed James icily that Mr. Benjamin Adamson was no longer employed by the BBC in any capacity.  No, she would not take a message for him.  No, she had no idea how it would be possible to contact him in the future.  Her tone communicated quite plainly that she was extremely glad of this before she abruptly rang off, leaving James to stare at the phone in under bewilderment.  “Well,” he said helplessly.

“Don’t look like that, James,” Richard said.  “He probably just quit abruptly when he heard the news about Richie, left them all in a lurch.  You know people do funny things when they’ve lost someone.” James nodded bleakly.  Richard returned to his comforting hug-hold.  “I’m sure you’ll see him at the funeral,” he said gently.  “Do you want me and Jez to go?  We’d be glad to, if it would help.”

The thoughtfulness of this offer touched James deeply.  “No,” he said quietly.  “No…I think I’d rather do this one on my own.”  Richard nodded, accepting this completely, and the thoughtfulness of _that—_ that he would either go or not depending on what James wanted, without James having to explain--made James feel like the luckiest bloke in the world.  He rotated around in Richard’s arms, wrapped his arms around the shorter body, and pulled him close.

***

The funeral was…odd.

Maybe they always were, when a person as young as Richie Ryan died.  There really aren’t any good ways to handle a tragedy like that, no true comfort to offer, no good things to say.  James had rather hoped the service would take place in some kind of religious institution for that very reason.  Then, even without any good things to say, there would at least have been the rhythm and familiarity of a known ritual to follow. 

But Richie hadn’t been a member of any religious group, at least not seriously enough to warrant a service within a church’s walls.  And so what he got instead was a ten minute eulogy delivered over his closed casket by the smiling director of the blandest, most offensively mass-market funeral homes James had ever had the misfortune to set foot in.  The funeral director admitted in his very first sentence that he’d never had the privilege of meeting Richie personally, and every word he said afterward just proved it—James had to restrain a snort when he spoke glowingly of Richie’s “politeness and piety”, clearly remembering the stream of creative profanity Richie had spouted one day when the engine they’d been working on had shifted at exactly the wrong moment, trapping his little finger against the scaffold.  Richard Ryan, polite?  Yes, usually…unless someone or something gave him a reason not to be.  Richard Ryan, pious?  Not so much…

Fortunately, the funeral director’s eulogy was followed by an infinitely more heartfelt address from the young lady Richie had given his life to save.  She’d written what she had to say on a cheap sheet of notebook paper on which the torn spiral-bound edge could plainly be seen, and spoke the words with such a heavy, bewildered sadness that James’s heart couldn’t help but go out to her.  God, he could only imagine what it must have been like, watching Richie die.  He hoped someone was seeing to it that the girl had professional help. James was just wondering whom he should speak with to ensure it…if money was an issue, god knew James had plenty now, and could easily underwrite a year of quality private post-traumatic counseling if nobody else had already arranged it…when he realized that the young lady had taken her seat.  And that the following silence had stretched on for far longer than it should have. 

Indeed, there seemed to be an intense disturbance taking place in the front row.  Both the funeral director and a short, grey-haired man James had never seen before were talking to a strikingly attractive dark-haired man.  They were speaking in a hush, far too quiet for James to hear from the back of the room.  But it was easy to see that the dark-haired man was shaking his head emphatically.  His face was set into harsh, angry lines, ones that appeared to be getting even harsher and angrier as the argument went on…which it did for quite some time.  In fact, pretty much the entire assembly had started shifting uncomfortably in its seats, and a few people had even gotten up to leave, when the grey-haired man suddenly threw up his hands.  He limped up to the lectern by the coffin…James saw that he needed a pretty sizeable cane to support himself.  He tapped on the mike to make sure it was working, and then looked out apologetically at the audience.  “Hi, everyone,” he said.  “Sorry about the delay.  Uh…my name’s Joe.  Joe Dawson.” 

There was a quiet rumble of “Hi, Joe’s” from the audience, as if they were all attending an AA meeting instead of a funeral.  Joe Dawson smiled weakly.  “I wasn’t really planning to talk to you all today,” he said.  “See, I’m a musician and a bartender by trade, and neither profession has exactly given me a great deal of practice at making public speeches. All I was going to do was play you a couple of Richie’s favorite songs before you left.  But since it looks like I’m the only one here who actually knew Richie who is prepared to speak today…” Here Joe Dawson shot an angry look at the man in the front row, who simply glowered back stonily…  “I’m going to talk to you a little bit about the Richard Ryan I knew.  Not the hero everyone’s been going on about in the press, but the real Richie—the kid I had the great privilege of watching grow up, and the grown man I had the even greater privilege of calling my friend.”  Joe swallowed.  “He was special, folks.  Let me tell you why.”

And he did, with straight-forward honesty that made James’s eyes tear, because it was obvious.  Whoever Joe Dawson was, he really had known Richie, and had found in him many of the same qualities that James had.  He talked about Richie’s sense of curiosity, his sense of humor and his sense of loyalty.  He explained how once Richie had adopted you as a friend, he’d never let you down.  He told a few stories about Richie’s “er, shall we say, great love of womankind?”, and how, especially during his younger years, he’d let himself be distracted by anything in a skirt—something James himself had never witnessed, but which seemed to strike a chord with several members of the audience.  Even the stony-faced dark-haired man gave a reluctant chuckle. 

But mostly Joe talked about Richie’s moral compass.  “Richie believed that right was right and wrong was wrong,” Joe said softly.  “And he believed that there was a great, big, thick line in between the two.  That’s not a very popular viewpoint, these days.  Most of us see things in shades of grey.  But to Richie there was no grey, and he always knew exactly which side of the Great Battle he wanted to be on.  He spent his entire life doing what he believed was right.  And fighting hard to stop everything he thought was wrong.”  Joe stepped out from behind the lectern and walked over to the twelve-year-old girl, leaving the mike behind.  “Sweetheart, I can only just imagine what you’re going though, and what you’re going to have to get through in the future,” he said gently.  “But I’ve had people give up their lives to save mine before, too.  It’s hard to look back at such a thing with any kind of peace…so I wanted to be sure that someone told you this.  If Richie had a chance to relive walking into that park, even knowing exactly what he was going to find and how it was going to end…he would do it again in a heartbeat.  The idiot who was trying to hurt you was completely in the wrong, you see, and Richie had spent his entire life fighting that kind of wrong.  The fact that you’re sitting here now, alive and well, he would take as a total win.  So please, don’t ever question that it was.  I know he never would.” The girl’s eyes misted over.  Joe smiled at her kindly, then limped back to the lectern.  “And now,” he said into the microphone, “I’m going to do what I originally set out to do, and play a few of Richie’s favorite songs for you before we all go.  Just promise me you’ll all bear with me, okay?  I’m a bluesman, both by nature and by training, and Richie was mostly a 70’s power rock fan.  Well, power rock AND classical opera, god help us all, which made for some interesting road trips.  But don’t worry.  I’m not going to try my hand at anything from La Boehme.  So you don’t have to run screaming for the exits just yet.” 

There was a brief, slightly uncomfortable chuckle from the assembly…this was England, after all, where laughing at funerals generally Was Not Done. Joe grinned hugely.  He pulled out an electric guitar from behind the lectern, plugged it into a portable amp.  “’Kay,” he said.  “I am now going to play Richard Ryan’s number one favorite song of all time.  If you have any complaints, take it up with him, not me.”  And he launched into a raucous rendition of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie.”

James’s was not the only jaw to drop.  If laughing generally wasn’t done at English funerals, playing vulgar American rock songs certainly wasn’t—and James was pretty sure he was only catching one sexual innuendo out of three.  But Joe’s singing was infectious.  It took a remarkably short amount of time for the audience to thaw, and eventually even to begin clapping along.  All but James, whose mouth stayed firmly open, even when Joe segued neatly into Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock n’ Roll”.  It wasn’t the song choice that had shocked James, though. 

It was the guitar.

He stared at it long and hard, trying desperately to note some detail that would prove it was a different instrument from the one he and Ben had fixed together in James’s shed.  He couldn’t.  Even from his place at the back of the room…James had arrived late, naturally, and joined the rest of the standing-room-only crowd behind the rows of metal chairs…James could see the slight discoloration in the plastic where he’d fixed the odd melted gashes.  The mismatch was very subtle, and therefore probably not even noticeable to anyone else.  But it was completely obvious to him…and James found his heart beating quicker.  Could this grey-haired man really have been the guitar’s original owner, then? 

Ben Adamson’s one great lost love? 

No.  James had to be wrong.  Somehow, when James had allowed himself to wonder about the rightful owner of the guitar, he’d always pictured someone closer to Ben in age.  But as the guitarist played on, James began to rethink that assumption, especially when first handful of up-tempo songs were finished and Joe began to sing a ballad instead, a hauntingly sweet rendition of Ben E King’s “Stand By Me”.  There was a depth in Joe’s voice that spoke of much trouble and hidden pain, and by the end…James knew, without a doubt, that this man really was the ‘Joe’ Ben had spoken of so wistfully.  

James even believed he could understand why.

And this left him with a dilemma, after the last chords had died away, the funeral director had said some clichéd final words, and the whole crowd had begun to shuffle awkwardly out of the room.  James had spent the entire service trying to find Ben in the crowd, but had come up empty.  It appeared that Ben hadn’t come to the funeral at all.  And that seemed wrong to James, so wrong that he really didn’t know what to do.  Was there a chance that Joe Dawson might know where Ben was?  If he did, should James make the bold move of going over, introducing himself, and asking?  He had no idea what the true history between the two men was after all, how strained their relationship had become.  Perhaps the last thing Dawson wanted was to meet a friend of Ben’s.  But then, this was Richie’s funeral, and James had been Richie’s friend, too.  He decided to take the risk.  

At first, it seemed like luck wasn’t with him.  Despite being encumbered by both guitar case and cane, Dawson could move with speed…and was doing so now, out the doors and into the hallway.  James almost despaired of catching him.  But the grey-haired man turned left, not right, and after a moment James realized where he was heading: not to the exit or the parking lot, but to the toilet.  Not to the large public one at the front of the building, which would doubtlessly be overrun just now, but to the smaller private one, intended mainly for funeral home staff, at the back.  James, whose own bladder was beginning to feel the effects of middle age, smiled in humorous recognition…and then felt the corners of his lips droop into something more sad.  If the man knew there was always a second, less occupied toilet in the back of the funeral home, then he, too, had attended more than his fair share of funerals.  James turned his steps to follow.

And promptly walked in on an argument. 

The staff accommodations were considerably more luxuriant than the public ones, with a small seating and dressing area where the director prepared for services.  The dressing area was separated from the more traditional facilities by a large wooden screen.  Joe Dawson was standing just inside that screen, his back to James, when James walked in.  “Well,” Dawson said caustically.  “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.  For god’s sake, Mac, you’re supposed to be more than four hundred years old, not a spoiled teenager.  I’m sick of you behaving as if this whole thing is just a giant conspiracy to inconvenience you. Would it really have killed you to act like a grown-up and say a few words?”

Startled, James stopped just inside the bathroom door.  The only other occupant of bathroom was the dark-haired man from the front row of the funeral.  He was wearing a long dark coat, and was leaning up against one of the dressing room mirrors with every appearance of displeasure.  He spoke in a low growl.  “What exactly did you want me to say, Joe?  This whole thing is a complete and utter _farce_.  And you know it.”  He sniffed disdainfully.  “There isn’t even a body in that coffin.”

James froze.  He’d spent a great deal of the service _not_ looking at Richie’s casket, unable to face the idea of Richie’s vibrant life being now enclosed within it.  The casket had been closed, but that hadn’t surprised him. Richie had been wounded in the head, and there was only so much cosmetic cover-up the funeral home could do.  Now, though, the closed lid seemed to hide something much more sinister.  Why on earth wasn’t Richie’s body in the coffin?  Could he have been…James could hardly even think the word… _stolen?_

Who would do such a thing?

But Joe Dawson seemed completely unsurprised.  “No, there isn’t,” he said levelly.  “And I understand why it seems like such a farce to you.  But you gotta understand too, Mac.  For almost everyone else here…it’s not a joke at all.  You saw that little girl out there, the one Richie saved.  You think it’s funny to her?  Or to her poor mom?” The other man stayed silent.  Joe Dawson sighed.  “Look.  I understand why you don’t want to be here.  Why it all seems like a huge waste of time.  But…it’s important.   And it’s actually really nice, when you think about.”  There was a soft creaking sound as Dawson put his guitar case down on one of the dressing room couches.  “I think it’s great that so many people remembered Richie and wanted to pay their respects.  He really touched a lot of people’s lives, this time around.”

The man in the coat made a derisive noise.  “Most of these people didn’t know Richie at all,” he said.  “They’re just here because the press made him into their hero of the week. As for the rest…God, Joe.”  The bitterness disappeared, replaced by what sounded to James like bleak despair.  “He should never have allowed himself to get this well known.  Never.  I tried and tried to tell him…”

“That was his choice to make, not yours,” Dawson said. “He knew the risks, Mac.  He took all the curves on this road with his eyes wide open.”   Dead silence from the dark-haired man.  Dawson’s voice sharpened.  “You sure you’re not just mad that he made such a full, happy life for himself here, away from you? With _him_?”

The second man’s voice rose high.  “ _Him?”_ he said incredulously.  “ _He’s_ not even here, Joe!”  He started pacing angrily back and forth across the dressing room, apparently too full of emotion to stay still. “You accuse me of treating this whole thing like a joke, but Methos didn’t even bother to show up!”

“I know.” Sadness filled Dawson’s voice.  “I guess I’m not surprised.  He had to have known I’d be here, and I guess I’m about the last person on earth he’d want to see.  But…”

“What about your people?” the second man asked sharply.  “Any visual contact?”

“I’m retired now, Mac!  I can’t just issue an APB without good reason.  But…” A heavy sigh.  “He appears to have gone underground.  His field agent hasn’t seen him for days.  Again, that’s not really a surprise.  If Methos doesn’t want to be Watched, he won’t be, and that’s all there is to it.  Still.  I must admit I’m getting a little worried.  Especially since we can’t seem to find Richie, either.”  Joe looked hesitant.  “You don’t think…you don’t think they could be together, do you?  Wherever they are?”

The dark-haired man stopped pacing.  “No.  I don’t think they are _together_ ,” he spat.  “Wherever Methos is now, I’m sure he’s seen to it that he’s completely on his own.”

He threw Joe Dawson such a strong look of rage that James actually took a step backward, halfway back out the door.  Dawson flinched.  “No,” he said in total disbelief.  “You can’t think…”

“Why wouldn’t I?” the other man demanded.  “We know that Richie had Methos listed as his emergency contact, and Methos was the one who went down to the morgue to identify his body.  That’s the last anyone ever saw of either one!  Just think about it, Joe.  Richie would have been weaponless when he revived.  And the whole world already thought he was dead.  It would have been the perfect time for Methos to…to…” 

The color drained from Dawson’s face.  “No.  You have to be wrong,” he said.  “He wouldn’t do that.  Not Methos.”

“You still believe that, Joe?  After what he did to Amy?”

There was a long silence.  James saw every muscle in Joe Dawson’s neck and shoulders tense.  “It took me a long, long time to forgive Methos for that,” he said at last, voice as low and sober as a grave.  “Maybe I never will forgive him, not completely.  But I—over the years, I’ve come to see that he had his reasons.  And that they were mostly about him trying to protect me.  However misguided that may have been.”  Dawson looked down at the floor for a moment, then stared the other man directly in the eye.  “Methos has never been in the Game for the heads, Mac.  And he’s never taken the head of a friend who didn’t force him into it—he can’t.  Real friends who know who and what he is are far too rare.  He can’t afford to lose a single one.  So I know he would never go after Richie.  He _wouldn’t.”_

It looked like the first man was going to argue further.  Then he slumped.  “No,” he agreed.  “No, all right.  Probably not.”  He rubbed his hands over his eyes, suddenly looking like a man who had gone far too long without sleep.  “But you have to agree, Joe… _something_ very strange is going on.  It’s not like Richie not to contact me after he dies.  Especially not when his death was this public.  He has to have known I’d see the papers, has to know how worried I’d be.  And now Methos has disappeared, too.  I think—“ 

He stopped.  One of the funeral attendants had chosen that moment to walk by in the hallway outside, and James, caught half in and half out of the toilet door, was startled enough to step all the way inside.  Even before the door swung closed with a loud thump, the angry man suddenly went stiff, like a pointer dog sniffing prey.  His eyes found James’s.  Joe Dawson turned around and did the same.  And James was caught.

James fought the urge to blush like a schoolboy, and only partially succeeded.  Even if he hadn’t understood more than one word in ten, he’d been blatantly listening in on a conversation that had clearly been meant to be private. But Joe Dawson’s face split into a broad smile.  “Oh.  Hello, there,” he said.  “You’re James May, aren’t you?  Richie talked about you often.”  He strode over and took James’s hand, shaking it firmly.  “He was so glad when the two of you got to be friends.  And I know he really appreciated you getting him that job at the garage, a few years back.  Got him out of a really tough spot.”  He frowned at James’s still-shocked expression, then smiled self-deprecatingly.  “Sorry.  Guess I should introduce myself, huh.  I’m Joe—Joe Dawson. I’ve been a friend of Richie’s since he was a kid.  This…” he nodded over his shoulder at the angry man.  “This is Duncan MacLeod.  Richie’s, um, foster father.”

Foster father???

It was the last thing James had expected.  No man on earth could have appeared less fatherly than Duncan MacLeod did at that particular moment.  Fortunately, the man looked a lot less angry, now that James had interrupted his and Joe’s tête-à-tête; instead, he just seemed perplexed, eyes skating over James as if he wasn’t really there at all.  “James May,” he said distantly.  “Top Gear, right?  The one who let Richie fix engines in his shed.  Yeah, he mentioned you to me, too.”  He cleared his throat and held out his own hand.  “Good to finally meet you, James.” 

James shook back, more confused than ever.  “Er.  Good to meet you, too,” he said.  So this was Richie’s adoptive father, the one Ben had once referred to sarcastically as “the fair MacLeod.”  James conceded that the title was well deserved; up close, MacLeod was about as handsome a man as James had ever seen.  There was something forbidding about him too, though, and James found himself casting about awkwardly for something socially acceptable to say.  “Um.  Richie mentioned you to me, too.  Although he mostly talked about your wife.  Tessa, wasn’t it?”

It was the right thing to say.  MacLeod’s bad mood seemed to melt away like an ice cube in sunshine.  He clasped James’s hand in both of his, an expression of incredible boyish happiness coming into his eyes.  “Richie still talks about Tessa?”  he said eagerly.  Then he seemed to catch himself.  He took a step back, oddly shy.  “Sorry.  I must sound like an idiot.  It’s just…it’s been so many years since we lost her now.  I didn’t know Richie still talked about her to his friends.”

“I helped him repair an old projector so he could sort out some of her slides,” James said.  “He showed me a few pictures of her sculptures.  She was wonderfully talented.”  MacLeod nodded and swallowed hard, seeming overcome.  James looked back at Joe.  “I…er…um, I think we might have another friend in common,” he said.  “He was a good friend of Richie’s, too.  Ben Adamson?”

MacLeod flinched, his happiness vanishing as quickly as it had come.  Dawson, though, stepped forward quickly.  “Ben?  You know Ben?” he said eagerly.  “Do you know where he is?  I’ve been trying to reach him for days.”

“Uh, no,” James said.  This was approaching whole new heights of “awkward”.  “Actually, I was hoping that you…”

He never got a chance to finish.  The door to the toilet swung open with a thump.  And standing behind it was one of the most striking women James had ever seen.

He’d noticed her during the service, of course, hovering with the rest of the late arrivals in the back.  It would have been hard not to.  She was one of those people that drew the eye, no matter what one’s usual sexual inclinations might be…and if James was any example, once the eye was drawn, it never wanted to leave.  She was dressed fairly demurely in a simple black dress with a short black trench coat over it, dark sunglasses shading her face—but the simple clothes enhanced rather than hid the multiple glories of her form, and the glasses simply called even more attention to the impossible symmetry of her face.  James…who had become quite surprisingly well versed in the ways of Hollywood A-listers since he’d started working for Top Gear…had taken her for some kind of American film star, perhaps someone Richie had once done stunt work with.  James didn’t recognize her.  But he always was rather slow when it came to identifying The Beautiful People, and she certainly had the look.  The fact that she’d been willing to attend the funeral incognita, not trying to steal the publicity opportunity for herself, had warmed him toward her, and he’d vowed to leave her alone.  After all, that’s how he wanted to be treated, too.  He’d been very relieved that none of the press attending the funeral had seemed to care about sourcing a soundbite from Top Gear’s James May.  Or…more likely…simply hadn’t recognized him at all, not without his other two-thirds bookending him.

This woman didn’t have that problem.  She stopped in her tracks and removed her sunglasses, revealing chocolate brown eyes alight with recognition…and a flirtatious interest that made James’s cheeks heat, especially when her gaze moved slowly from his face to his nether regions and then back up.  “Well, as I live and breath,” she purred.  “James May.  I thought that was you.  That hair couldn’t possible belong to anyone else.”

“Amanda!” barked Joe Dawson, mortified.  “This is a men’s room!”

“Oh, please,” said the woman, waving a lovely hand dismissively.  “Like there’s anything in here I haven’t seen before.  Granted, more often than not I don’t really want to see it, but…” She smiled seductively at James.  “There’s always an exception.” She held out her hand.  “Hello, James.  My name’s Amanda.  I’m one of your biggest fans.”

Duncan MacLeod coughed gently.  He looked, James noticed through his own rapidly rising embarrassment, more resigned to Amanda’s flirtatious behavior than mortified by it.  “Amanda,” he said calmly.  “Can this wait?  Or is there some special reason why you are in the men’s room?”

“Oh.”  She sobered instantly, dropping her hand to her side.   “Yes.  I was looking for you.”  She wrapped her coat around her more tightly.  “Keane finally called me back, Duncan.  He’s in London, and he’s willing to meet with us.  He might know something about, ah, our missing friends. But…we have to go right now.”

And it was perhaps the oddest part of a very odd exchange that the moment Amanda said those last words, she changed.  The American-film-star-slumming-incognita aura completely left her, replaced by something almost…military.  This impression was only heightened by the way MacLeod instantly changed, as well.  He buttoned his coat with deft, practiced hands, wasting no motions at all, and reached into the pocket for a pair of sunglasses of his own.  When they were in place, he looked just as anonymous…and threatening…as Amada did.  “Right,” he said briskly.  “Let’s go.”  He held out his hand to James.  “James, it was very good to meet you.  Joe…”

If possible, Dawson looked even paler than he had before.  “I understand.  Check in with me later, okay?”  MacLeod nodded distractedly and strode out…pausing only to hold the door for Amanda, who ducked under his arm and then fell into place at his side as naturally as if she’d spent decades walking there.  James really didn’t have much time to think about that, though, because the moment the door shut and screened them from view, Joe Dawson was in front of James, pushing a business card into his hands.  “Look, James,” he said earnestly.  “I have to be going, too.  But I’ve written my private cell phone number on the back of this card.  If you hear from Ben, you call me, okay?  Any time of day or night.  I—“ He faltered slightly.  “I just really need to know that he’s okay.”

Completely discombobulated now, James nodded.  Dawson smiled at him weakly, then gathered up his guitar and was gone, once again moving with that surprising speed.  As the door swung shut behind him, James looked down at the card.  It was for some sort of drinking establishment in Seacouver…”Joe’s”…and had Joe Dawson listed as the proprietor.  On the back was a hastily scrawled phone number, complete with the American international prefix.

James tucked the card into his pocket and left.

***  
“What???” Richard, sitting in James’s living room with his hair disarranged into the most attractive tangle of bed-head James had ever seen…really, it wasn’t fair that the man could roll out of bed looking that good, especially not after fucking James so soundly…looked up at James incredulously.  “He actually said that Richie’s body wasn’t in the casket? What the fuck, James!”

James could only shrug helplessly.  After leaving the funeral home that afternoon, James had driven his Panda home, only to find that Jeremy had already let himself in and was waiting at the front door with a drink…not the beer James usually favored on a Sunday afternoon, but something mercifully stronger.  Richard, arriving less than ten minutes later, had taken one look at James’s still insanely unhappy face and taken both him and Jeremy to bed.  Comfort sex takes on an entirely new dimension when you have two lovers, and there’s a set of loving arms on both sides of you, ready to take you in no matter which way you turn.  Richard and Jeremy had taken such thorough good care of James that his brain had short-circuited, leaving his odd experiences at the funeral behind, at least for a while.  It wasn’t until they’d had a post-sex binge on delivered pizza and watched a short documentary on 18th century clipper ships that James’s puzzled frown had returned.  Richard, naturally, had noticed at once.  When the credits rolled he’d clicked off the telly with a definite don’t-argue-with-me air.  “All right, mate,” he’d said firmly.  “Something’s really bothering you—something more than just being sad for Richie, I mean.  Spit it out.”

And so James had told them all about the strange conversation he’d overheard.  He may have misremembered the odd word or two, but he more than got the gist…enough that Jeremy, frowning, had silently gotten up to pour more drinks, and Richard had straightened up in his chair in disbelieving shock.  “I know,” James said now, in response to Richard’s exclamation.  “I reacted the same way, Richard.  But maybe it doesn’t mean anything.  Richie probably just…I don’t know.  Maybe he left his body to medical science or something, and that’s why they buried an empty casket.  But…given everything else they said...” 

“Well, yeah,” Richard said.  “Like the bit about that weird MacLeod guy being over four hundred years old.  And the ‘it’s not like Richie to go this long without contacting me after he dies’.  Jesus Christ.”  He leaned toward, eyes little-boy-wide.  “You don’t think Richie and his foster-dad could be some kind of… _undead_ …do you, James?  Like, I dunno.  Vampires or werewolves or something?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hammond,” Jeremy said.  He was standing at the wet bar in the corner of the room, dropping ice cubes into three scotch glasses.  They made a musical clink before he gathered them up in his big hands and headed back.  “It’s perfectly obvious what Richard Ryan really was.” 

“Yeah?”  Richard said.  “Well, don’t keep us all in suspense, Jez.  Go ahead and share with the class.”

“Be happy to.”  Jeremy handed round the freshly refilled glasses and then settled into his favorite chair with every air of immense self-satisfaction.  “Richard Ryan was an undercover spy.”

“Yeah, right.  Pull the other one, mate,” Richard scoffed, then did a double take when Jeremy didn’t smile.  “You’re serious?”

“Think about it,” Jeremy said.  “The kid was what, nineteen years old, when he auditioned for us?  And he’d driven in only half a dozen amateur races.  But he drove like he’d been doing it for decades…not even Collins ever posted a faster time in that Toyota.  I thought it was odd at the time.  But it all makes sense to me, now.  He’d probably had special training at Fort Monckton.  Or Quantico, or wherever it is that the bloody Americans train their secret agents.”

“You’ve been watching too many bad films, Jez!”

“No,” Jeremy denied.  “Like I said, you just need to think about it.  He was going to be the Stig…and we’d just started doing our regular specials overseas.  What better way to travel undercover internationally?  Especially when you throw in our tours and other special appearances, too?  Then, when that didn’t work out, what did he become instead?  A stunt driver for films.  One who worked all over the world.  Do the math, Hammond.”  Jeremy took a smug sip of scotch.  “Granted, it was nowhere near as cool as working for us would have been. Or as convenient, either…always having the Stig’s driving mask to retreat behind would have been a huge plus for an undercover spy.  But beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Then what’s all this crap about there not being a body?”  Richard still sounded skeptical.  “You think…what, that Richie didn’t die at all?  He faked his death?”

“Exactly.”  Jeremy nodded sagely.  “All the strange things James overheard…the 400 years old part and whatnot…that must have been some kind of code.  That MacLeod guy probably wasn’t Ryan’s foster-father at all, but his whatdoyoucallit, his handler.  I bet Ryan’s mission was finished, so they set up the whole thing with the meth head so he could ‘die’ and start over.  Only something went wrong, and he never checked in afterwards.”  Jeremy took another sip, considering.  “Maybe the Russians got him.  Or the Chinese.”

“You’re barking mad, Jez.” 

“Oh, yes,” Jeremy said bitingly.  “Because your _‘_ walking undead’ theory is _so_ much more sensible.  James?  Tell him.”

“I don’t know what to think,” James said.  “If Ben had been at the funeral, I’d think the whole thing was…I don’t know.  Me mishearing, maybe.  Or just grief making people say and do things that don’t make sense.”  He stared moodily into his scotch, cradled in both his hands.   “But Ben wasn’t there.  And Dawson and MacLeod both seemed to be as…as concerned about that as I am.” He looked up at Jeremy.  “Tell me again what Andy said when he talked to his friend on the Downton Abbey team?”

“I already told you, James,” Jeremy said patiently.  “Adamson got some kind of text in the middle of a production meeting, and just walked out without a word.  Not so much as an ‘excuse me’. The next day he e-mailed Marty his resignation.  Said it was time for him to change career paths and not to expect him in ever again.”

“That was it?  That was his only explanation?”  Richard shook his head.  “I heard they’re just about to start filming the new series, too.  God. No wonder his PA sounded so pissed.”

“That’s not right,” James said positively.  “Ben loved that job, Jeremy.  It was perfect for him, a chance to actually do something with his love of history. He wouldn’t have just left it.”  He felt the sharp eyes of his lovers fall over him, and sighed.  “And yes, I really am over him,” he finished quietly.  “You two know that.  I haven’t even talked to the man since the three of us first got together.  This is just…just me thinking something is very wrong.  And worrying about it.”  James laughed humorlessly.  “Like the fussy old mother hen I am, apparently.”

Richard got up and padded over to him, seating himself at James’s right.  “Our mother hen,” he said affectionately.  “Don’t worry, James.  We’re not jealous.  Well, maybe a bit, because Adamson had the brains to make a move on you first…but that’s all over and done with.  Now, we’re just worried because you are.”  He shivered.  “And honestly? I think you’ve got good reason to be.  Something weird is going down.”

“Yes,” Jeremy agreed staunchly, so staunchly that James felt his heart swell with a tide of love and pride.  It was good, having both of his lovers’ support, so freely and unconditionally given.  “No question about that, James.  The only question is what we’re going to do about it.  Tomorrow, I think I should…”  He stopped abruptly, eyes focusing on something outside the living room window.  “James.  Did you see that?”

James, frowning, twisted so he could see out the same window Jeremy was looking through.  It had been dark outside for several hours.  At first, James could see nothing amiss.  All he could make out was the familiar lines and shapes of his back garden and shed, dimly illuminated by the streetlamp on the far side of his fence.  Then, abruptly he saw it: a faint flashing of light, just barely visible through the shed’s small high windows.  He got to his feet.  “What on earth…”

“Torchlight,” Jeremy said authoritatively, and James had to agree.  They watched it flare and retreat a few more times.  “I think someone’s having a look ‘round your shed, James.”

“Burglars?” Richard asked.

“In James’s shed?  Hate to break it to you, Richard, but there’s nothing in there worth stealing.”  Jeremey’s voice was harsh.  “No.  Got to be the bloody paps, I’d guess.”

Richard gulped audibly.  He looked down at his body, which was clad only in an old Japanese kimono, one that was incompletely tied and half falling off his shoulders.  Combined with the bed-hair, he looked exactly like what he was: namely, a man who’d spent the afternoon having sex, and who hadn’t bothered to get dressed again afterward for what he’d assumed would be a quiet evening in.  Jeremy wasn’t any more presentable.  His robe at least, thanks to his constant self-consciousness over his bulging stomach, was properly tied, and what little hair he still had was neatly combed, but he still looked far from decent.  Of the three, only James was fully dressed, and that was only because he’d been the one to go to the door to get the pizza.  James yanked the blinds close, cursing himself for his carelessness.  “You don’t think they got pictures of…” he began, and stopped.  The thought was much too horrible to finish.

Jeremy got to his feet.  “I’m going out there.”

“No, you’re not,” Richard contradicted.  “Not looking like that.”  He stared looking around for his mobile.  “I’m calling the police.”

“No, you’re not.”  The suggestion of law enforcement had cleared James’s head a trifle.  “Look, if it really is somebody breaking into my shed…if it’s not just a trick of the light…it’s probably just some neighborhood kids looking for a private place to snog, all right?  No need to get the police involved.  And if by chance it’s the paparazzi, like Jez thinks…” He sighed.  “Well.  It’s still best not to involve the police, at least not until we know what they have.  They might…I don’t know.  They might be willing to cut some kind of deal.”  He took a deep breath.  “This is my house, and I’m the only one who’s decent.  It’s up to me to see what’s going on.”  

“At least wait for one of us to go with you,” Jeremy argued.  “It’ll only take five minutes to get dressed.”

“Five minutes?  Don’t forget, one of you is Richard Hammond,” James joked.  It fell miserably flat.  James sighed again.  “Jez, I’m not going to live the sort of life where I’m scared to go into my own back garden.  That’s all there is to it.  All right?”  Both men nodded soberly.  James started for the hall.  But on the threshold, he turned back.  “Though, just to be clear:  I will be expecting manly backup the moment you both get your trousers on.  Better run a comb through your hair, too, Hammond.”

It was a measure of how frightened he was that Richard didn’t go for the obvious Jeremy’s-too-bald-to-need-a-comb joke.  He just nodded again, tight-lipped.  And James went into the hall and out the back door.

It was amazing creepy, being alone in the garden in the dark.  Especially with the strange light dancing in the shed.  When James was about halfway across the garden, he suddenly heard a loud thump, followed by the distinctive sound of muffled swearing…god help him, there really was something in there after all.  He just about jumped out of his skin when he heard it, and almost bolted back to the safety of his house and beloveds…but no.  He wasn’t a child, to be frightened by the suggestion of monsters in the shed.  Whoever was inside would to do much better to be afraid of James.  Just to shore up his nerves, he picked up a spade from where it was leaning against the outer shed wall and hefted it threateningly.  Then he pushed the door open, and switched on the shed’s inner lights.

“Oh.  Damn,” a female voice said.

James froze.  He’d thought he’d braced himself for anything…from burglars to blackmail-seeking photographers to otherworldly beings with glowing eyes.  But what he got instead was…

…a woman. 

She’s obviously started the evening dressed sensibly for a round of breaking and entering—plain black pants, plain black jumper that covered her up to her chin, even the traditional black ski-mask and gloves.  She was so completely covered in black, in fact, that James might not have been certain of her sex at all if it weren’t for two things.  First, he doubted that many masculine housebreakers performed their evening duties wearing knee high black leather boots with stiletto heels.  And even if there were…even if there happened to be a whole brotherhood of stiletto-loving housebreakers James had previously been completely ignorant of…well.  At some point, the woman had gotten down on her knees in order to point her torch underneath James’s workbench, and the waistband of her pants had caught in several of the hooks James had screwed into the bench’s edge to hold his spanners.  In her attempts to free herself in the darkness, the sweater had twisted up and the pants had ridden down, so that James could clearly see the bra and panties she was wearing underneath.  Very posh, tiny, lacey varieties of underwear they were, inadequately cloaking assets James hadn’t seen so clearly since the last time Richard and Jeremy had stayed up late watching lesbian porn.  And had never seen so clearly in real life.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole neighborhood heard his panicked gulp.

The woman, though, after a moment of staring…her eyes were a velvety brown beneath her ski mask…actually seemed to relax.  Her astonishing body went limp against the tool bench’s lower shelf, and her masked mouth actually seemed to smile.   “Oh, it’s just you,” she said.  “Um.  Hello, James.”

“You know my name?”

“Well, of course,” the woman answered.  “You don’t think I’d break into just anybody’s toolshed, now do you?  Besides, you already know mine, too.  We met earlier today.  At Richie’s funeral, remember?  I’m Amanda.”  She attempted to back out from under the bench, and succeeded only in banging her head.  “Drat,” she said.  “I seem to be well and truly stuck. Be a dear and give a lady a hand, now will you?”

Amanda punctuated the words with a well-practiced little wiggle that James was sure had kick started a thousand libidos in its time, even without the exposure of the lacey thong.  It afflicted even James, hitting him squarely in the chivalry, and he instantly started to spring forward to rescue the damsel in distress.  He’d only taken two steps forward, though, when reality overtook him…the reality of just who this Amanda woman might be, and the damage she could do.  He tightened his grip on his spade and attempted to look dangerous.  “I will,” he said evenly.  “Just as soon as you give me your camera and the passwords to all of your cloud accounts.  Once I’ve destroyed the camera and the SIM card and deleted any pictures you’ve already uploaded, I’ll be happy to let you go.”

“My…my what?”  For a second Amanda just stared at him, her open mouth oddly pink against the black of the mask.  Then understanding seemed to dawn.  “Oh, for…” she began, and shook her head.  “I’m not a bloody paparazzo, James.  I’m not here to take compromising photos.  Believe me.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Well, I already told you I was a fan.  Maybe I just couldn’t resist the opportunity to get my hands on one of James May’s famous spanners?”  she suggested brightly.  James remained exactly where he stood, stony face signaling how unimpressed he was by that suggestion.  Amanda sagged.  “Oh, all right,” she said dejectedly.  “I’m here to rob you, of course.” 

James nodded coldly and reached for his phone.  Amanda hit her head again in her panicked attempt to scramble out from under the bench.  “No—no,” she levelly.  “Please don’t call the police, James.  I am here to rob you…but not of anything valuable.  You probably never even knew you had the thing I’m looking for in the first place.  You might not have it at all, in fact; I might be making the biggest mistake in my career, coming here tonight.  But I honestly didn’t know what else to try.”  James frowned with his fingers on his phone, hesitating.  The woman looked him straight in the eyes.  “It’s important,” she finished quietly.  “I’m not exaggerating when I say that two people’s lives, maybe more, depend on my finding it.  And the police can’t help me…they’ll only make things worse.  Please, James.”

And that was the moment that Jeremy and Richard burst in.

They had put the intervening minutes to good use.  Both Richard and Jeremy were now fully and irreproachably dressed.  Richard had even found the time to wet down his hair, though he had two damp cowlicks, sticking out from either side of his forehead like antennae, which he’d never have allowed to be seen in public at any other time, probably because neither Jeremy nor James would have ever let him hear the end of it.  As it was, James was touched both by the haste of his lovers’ ablutions and the fact that they had both taken the time to arm themselves.  If they’d been at Jeremy’s, they doubtlessly would have broken into Jeremy’s collections of handguns.  At James’s, they’d been forced to make do with what they could find in James’s kitchen.  And the sight of them rushing to James’s rescue, Jeremy brandishing a frying pan and Richard backing him up with James’s grandmother’s heavy oak rolling pin, was simultaneously the most frightening and the most ludicrous thing James had ever seen in his life. 

He loved them both so much in that moment that his heart physically hurt.

The woman, still imprisoned by James’s spanner hooks, sagged, muttering something.  To James it sounded like “Oh, God.  The other two.  That’s all I need,” but he couldn’t be sure.  He was too busy looking at Jeremy…who was lowering his raised frying pan with the air of the well and truly gobsmacked.  “James,” he said, and for a second they were back in James’s bedroom five years ago, Jeremy rushing in through a different door to find James in bed with Ben.  “There’s a half-naked women in your shed.”

Richard snorted.  “I think James can see that perfectly well for himself, Jez.”

Jeremy ignored him.  “James,” he repeated.  “ _Why_ is there a half-naked woman in your shed?”

“Ah,” James replied.  “Gentlemen, this is Amanda.  We met—briefly—at Richard Ryan’s funeral today.  She’s breaking in, apparently.  To steal something I’d allegedly never miss.”  Neither Jeremy nor Richard reacted to this, and after a brief moment of confusion, James understood: they had both become mesmerized by the women’s inadequately cloaked assets.  James sighed.  “Right,” he said firmly.  “I think it’s time to move this back into the house, don’t you?  I, for one, would like to finish my drink.”

***

Some people always manage to look perfectly at ease, even when circumstances are wildly against them.  Amanda seemed to be a member in good standing of that lucky club.  Despite the fact that she’s been engaged in a highly illegal activity moments before, despite the fact that any normal human being would have been covered in cobwebs and dust and who knew what else from rummaging through James’s shed, neither her calm nor her outfit was ruffled.  The moment Amanda’s disarrayed clothing had been pulled into place and her mask removed she looked perfectly poised, and so amazingly fashionable and well-groomed that she might have been about to walk down a red carpet, rather than sitting patiently in a kitchen chair pulled hastily into the middle of James’s living room.  She hadn’t even smeared her lipstick.  The only thing that seemed to worry her a little was the location of her overcoat.  “I, ah, shed it out in the shed, so it wouldn’t catch on things as I searched,” she explained in meek, little-girl tones the moment they had her seated.  “Would one of you big strong gentlemen mind fetching it for me?”

James rolled his eyes.  But Richard…who had narrowly missed out on being the one to tug Amanda’s pants free of the spanner hooks, simply because the quarters were tight and Jeremy had steadfastly blocked his way with his larger body while he rushed to do it himself…was instantly out the door.  He came back a few minutes later, wincing slightly as he carried the woman’s black coat in two arms.  “Good God, that’s heavy,” he said.  “What did you do, weigh down the pockets with ball bearings?”

“Well, I was breaking into James May’s shed,” Amada said prettily.  “You can’t blame a girl for wanting a few tools for souvenirs.”

“Hmmmph,” said Jeremy skeptically.  “Richard, give that here.”  Richard seemed a bit reluctant, but he passed the coat into Jeremy’s hands. Jeremy frowned as he, too, hefted the coat’s extraordinary weight.  Then he started going through the pockets. 

James expected Amanda to object to this, but she didn’t.  She just watched keenly while Jeremy pulled out a humungous torch, black and workmanlike and heavy enough to work as a bludgeon in a pinch.  It was followed closely by a lipstick James had a vague idea was of a very expensive and very exclusive brand, and something he was pretty sure was a set off lock-picks.  That was it for the hip pockets.  From the breast pocket, Jeremey withdrew a Canadian passport…and then a French one…and finally an American one.  “Right,” Jeremy said, taking his glasses out of his own shirt pocket so he could read them.  “The French passport is for an Amanda Darieux…the Canadian one for Amanda Deveroux…and the American one for Amanda Devore.  All are listed as being five foot ten and a hundred and twenty pounds, which I believe.  All three are also listed as just having turned twenty-one years old, which I don’t believe for one second…”

“Hey,” Amanda protested testily.

“Don’t interrupt,” Jeremy said.  “As I was saying…this lady’s age is clearly as imaginary as her many names.  But never mind.  We’ll let it stand for now.”  He closed the American passport with a snap and looked down at Amanda severely, peering over the top of his reading glasses.  “I think it’s only fair to let you know, ‘Amanda’.  The three of us already know exactly what you are.  And just why your coat’s so heavy.”

For the first time, Amanda seemed to wilt.  “So Meth…Ben did eventually tell you the truth, James,” she said softly.  “He called me up and asked me if he should, you know, not long after you two met.  We talked about it several times, but I was never sure which way he’d decided.  I…”  Amanda nibbled on her lip, looking awkward in a way James would have sworn, ten seconds before, that she simply wasn’t capable of.  “I hope it wasn’t too much of a shock for you,” she finished.

James stared.  “Ben’s involved in this, too?”

“Well, of course,” Amanda said, startled.  “He’s at the very center of the whole mess, the stupid old fool.  But—“  And now Amanda just looked confused.  “But if Ben didn’t tell you the truth, then how did you know what I am?”

“Oh, we figured it out all on our own,” Jeremy said smugly.  “It was obvious, really.”  He put the passports down and hefted Amanda’s weighty overcoat pointedly in his large hands.  “It’s bullet-proof, right?  Lined in something suitably space-aged that’ll keep you safe under fire, something lighter and more flexible than the general public has access to.  More effective too, no doubt.”  He put the coat back down, regarding Amanda with utter triumph.  “Only the best for MI6.”

Amanda’s eyelids…fluttered.  It wasn’t, James thought, yet another attempt at manipulation through flirtation.  It was more like she was very, very startled, so startled that she was forced to blink several times in rapid succession.  But then her head slumped with every appearance of defeat.  “Yes,” she said, and her accent had changed completely, dropping its American twang and picking up the polished tones of a British aristocrat.  “Yes, that’s it exactly.  I work for MI6.”

“I knew it!”  Jeremy crowed. 

He did a little celebratory dance, even pausing to high-five Richard.  Richard returned the gesture happily, so excited to have a real live secret agent in their midst that he didn’t care that his undead theory was disproved.  James watched it all with a serious, doubtful frown.  “You have to understand,” Amanda said severely, when Richard and Jeremy’s capering had died down somewhat, “that none of you can ever say anything about this to anyone.  The security of the entire nation could be at risk.”

“Oh, we understand.  We really, really do,” Richard said blithely.  He high-fived Jeremy one last time and threw himself down on the couch.  “So is Jeremy right, then?  Is young Ryan really still alive?”

“I—I hope so,” Amanda said slowly.  “He was a few hours ago, at least.  That’s why I came here, to do my best to see that he stays that way.  I—“  She fussed with the hem of her jumper for a moment.  “I suppose I really should tell you the whole story.  Now that my cover has been compromised anyway.”

“Yes!  You really should.”  Jeremy settled himself next to Richard.  “Look, we already know that Ryan was working undercover, and that whole thing with the shooting was faked so he could move onto his next assignment.  That’s why there wasn’t a body in his casket at the funeral.”  Amanda’s big brown eyes went almost comically wide, staring up at Jeremy incredulously.  He smiled genially.  “Don’t look so surprised.  James overheard your friends…Dawson and MacLeod, was it?...talking about it in the men’s room. I assume they’re both MI6, too?”

“Errr...Duncan is,” Amanda said.  “Joe’s more of a…civilian informant.  And a very good friend.”  She cast another sidelong glance at James.  “How much did you hear?”

James frowned.  There seemed to be a hidden meaning in Amanda’s gaze, something she was trying to communicate or ascertain without saying it aloud.  But Jeremy answered for James, taking over the conversation as effortlessly as he would dominate an interview on set.  “Not much,” he said.  “Just that this Duncan fellow thought the whole funeral was unnecessary, and was concerned because he hadn’t heard from Richie yet.  ‘It’s not like Richie to go so long without checking in after he dies’, I think were the exact words.  James?”  James nodded slowly, gaze locked on Amanda.  She closed her eyes briefly, as if pained.  “And then that neither of them have heard from Adamson, either,” Jeremey finished.  He frowned too, for the first time an air of seriousness cloaking his secret-agent-inspired joi de vivre.   “They’re trouble, aren’t they.  Both Ryan and James’s old…um, friend.”

Amanda blinked again.  James knew…just knew…that she was processing both the hesitation and the ‘um’ that Jeremy had put before ‘friend’, and that the combination had given her information she hadn’t had before that moment.  He squirmed internally.  But when she spoke, her voice was just plain sad.  “Yes,” she said.  “I’m afraid they are.” 

“What kind of trouble?” James asked quietly.

“They’re being held for ransom.”  Amanda answered.  “We…Duncan and I…we only found out today, after the funeral.  If we don’t give the abductors what they are asking for…”  Her hand tightened on her knee.

“They’ll be killed?”  Jeremy asked. 

“Beheaded,” Amanda confirmed.  “It’s…er.  It’s their captor’s way.” 

“ISIS,” Richard and Jeremy both breathed.  They didn’t look anywhere near as pleased with themselves as they had a few moments before, when this had all still been a schoolboy’s game.  Amanda neither confirmed nor denied their assumption.  Again, her eyes flickered towards James, searching for that something James couldn’t identify.  James didn’t care, though.  The thought of Ben and Richie being beheaded on some grainy terrorist video was so horrifying that abruptly, nothing else mattered.  “What’s the ransom?” he asked.  “If money is all they’re after, I can…well.”  He ducked his head shyly.  “I really do have more than I need.”

Richard looked startled…then nodded, and reached for James’s hand.  “Me too,” he said.

“Me three,” Jeremy said.  Both of his lovers swung their heads around to stare at him.  “Well, all right, maybe I don’t,” he continued gruffly.  “Not with three kids in school and alimony to pay.  But I could always sell some of the cars, or re-mortgage one of the houses, or…”  He shrugged, levelly meeting James’s incredulous eyes.  “We’ve been more fortunate than 99.9% of the world, James,” he said quietly.  “If it can save your friends’ lives, I’m all in.”

“Thank you, boys,” Amanda said, mercifully sparing James the task of figuring out how to respond to that.  He wasn’t sure he could, not without un-manly tears.   “But it’s not money Keane wants.”  She looked at James.  “James.  Did Ben ever give you anything….special?  Something small, perhaps?  Something to, er…” And suddenly she was blushing as shyly as a school girl.  “To …celebrate…the beginning of your relationship, maybe?”

“Ben gave me many things,” James said calmly, and was more touched than he could say when Richard didn’t take his hand away, just gave James’s a reassuring squeeze.  “Most of them intangible.  But somehow I don’t think that’s what you’re talking about.”

“No.  This would have been something very material.”

“Then I’m afraid I have to disappoint you,” James answered.  “Besides take-aways and the occasional six pack of beer, the only things Ben ever gave me were things to fix.  I’m assuming you already know that, Amanda.  Or my shed wouldn’t have been your first port of call, burglary-wise.” 

“Yes,” Amanda agreed, nodding.  “Ben told me all about your assembly weekends, James.  And I’m very grateful that you were able to repair my old jewelry box.  It meant a lot to me, seeing that little ballerina twirling again.” 

“That was yours?”

“That was mine.”  Amanda smiled at him, not flirtatiously for once, just a grateful smile made up of pure, genuine sweetness.  For a second, she looked so youthfully innocent that James was almost able to believe that she might really be the twenty-one her passport claimed, after all.  Then her smile faded away. “But Ben didn’t hide it in there,” she said, almost to herself.  “I know, I already looked.  It’s not in Joe’s guitar case or hidden in Trent’s old typewriter, either. So…” She returned her attention to James.  “What was the last thing you and Ben worked on together, James?”

“An old wind-up phonograph.  Made in 1920.”

“Do you still have it?”

“It’s in the attic.  I’ll need someone to help me carry it down.”

“I’ll stay here and watch Amanda,” chorused both Jeremy and Richard.  Then they glared at each other.  “Well, someone needs to keep an eye on her,” Jeremy finished weakly.

“Right,” James agreed.  “And that person should be me, I think.  Amanda, you’re with me.  Richard, Jeremy, you stay here and…I don’t know, guard the liquor cabinet or something.  We’ll be back soon.”  And he collected Amanda by the arm and had her through the door before there could be any argument.

Amanda’s eyes danced mischievously, but she stayed quiet until they’d gone up one flight of stairs and were out of ear shot of the living room.  “Bravo,” she said then.  “That was masterful, James.  Solomon himself could not have done better. I begin to understand just what Ben saw in you.”

“That’s more than I ever did,” James said under his breath.  He paused with his back to the banister, looking down at her searchingly.  “Amanda.  Are you really MI6?”

She had the grace to look slightly ashamed.  “No,” she said.  “I was CIA once though, in my distant checkered past.  Duncan was too, once upon a time.  So it just seemed easiest to confirm your friend’s theory.”

“And Ben?”

She snorted.  “Wouldn’t put it past him,” she said.  “Trying to list all the things Ben has been and done would drive anybody mad.  But…if what you are really asking is if he is now…” She shook her head.  “No.  I’m afraid the trouble he and Richie are in tonight has nothing to do with any government.  There won’t be any help if it all goes wrong.  It’s all terrifyingly personal.”  She looked up at James searchingly.  “He really never told you anything about his Immort…about his past?  Nothing at all?”

“I never asked,” James said.  “I knew he had some history he didn’t want to talk about it, of course, I’m not an idiot, but…I don’t know.  It never seemed important.”  He laughed hollowly.  “It was enough just having him as my friend.”

She stared at him so long and hard he began to wonder if he’d said the wrong thing…but no.  Her hand touched James’s arm consolingly.  “And now I really do know what he saw in you,” she said softly, before giving his arm a pat.  “Come on.  Let’s go find what I need to save the silly bastard’s life.”

“It might be easier if you told me what you were looking for.”

“I know.”  She didn’t elaborate.  And James, nodding, led the way to the attic.

Once upon a time, he might have been embarrassed about letting a woman of Amanda’s obvious caliber into his attic.  The place was a temple to nerdy man-boy-ness after all, with toy trains and Scalectrix sets and vintage board games stacked every which way.  But he’d had years to cure himself of such socially imposed self-consciousness—he was what he was.  Besides, Amanda seemed far more appreciative than amused.  She looked around at everything with wide, wondering eyes…at least until she caught sight of the phonograph.  Then, she was abruptly all business.  “Right,” she said, bending down and getting her fingers under one edge.  “Let’s get this down into the light.”

They managed to maneuver the heavy, awkward phonograph down to the living room together.  James was wheezing noticeably by the time they reached it.  He didn’t object at all when Jeremy and Richard rushed forward to take the burden from his and Amanda’s hands--even though he knew immediately that the kindness had less to do with saving James from an incipient heart attack and more to do with impressing Amanda.  Amanda didn’t object, either.  She just waited while the two overgrown teenagers wrestled the heavy piece of early 20th century technology onto an end table.  Then she sank down on her knees in front of it.  “Good,” she said.  “Doesn’t look like it’s been disturbed.  I’m the first one to think of looking inside it, then.  Now, where would Ben have put it?  I doubt he would have done anything as obvious as hide it in the speaker, but it always pays to be thorough.”  She pulled out a large torch and shone it down the bell.

“Wait a minute,” Richard said accusingly.  “Where’d you get that torch from?  Jeremy already took yours.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Amanda said, not pausing in her examination at all.  “What kind of secret agent would I be if I didn’t carry a second torch?  That’s practically the first thing they teach you in spy school.” 

“But where were you hiding it?  I mean, we searched your coat.  And your other clothes aren’t exactly…er…well…”  He gestured vaguely to indicate the extremely form-fitting nature of Amanda’s garments. 

“Richard, darling, you’d be surprised by the things I can hide in this outfit.  But please don’t ask me to show you.  A lady must have some secrets,” Amanda said briskly.  She straightened up.  “No, not in the speaker,” she said.  “I didn’t think he would have done that, but it was worth a shot.  We’ll have to open up the case.  James? Do you have a screwdriver?”

Of course James did.  He and Amanda got to work, quickly covering the coffee table and most of the sofa and chairs with disassembled parts.  For the sake of expediency, James resisted his normal urge to label and lay out each part neatly as it came undone, and settled for collecting each small spring and screw in an old spam can instead—it was as good as he was going to get, and a serious improvement over Jeremy’s “Why don’t you just bash it apart with a hammer if you’re in such a hurry?” plan.  Amanda nixed Jeremy’s suggestion quickly, though.  Whatever she was looking for—she still wouldn’t say what it was—might not survive such rough treatment.  Her hands were skilled with screwdriver and tweezers, though, and in a surprisingly small amount of time the phonograph had been completely reduced to its component parts.  When it had, Amanda got up from the table, every line of her body drooping.  “Fuck,” she said quietly.

At that moment, it wasn’t a dirty word, or even just a crude expression of frustration.  It was the sound of total heartbreak.  For a second, all three men were so quiet that James could hear his old-fashioned wall clock ticking.  Then Jeremy said, hesitantly:  “It’s not here?”

“Not here,” Amanda confirmed.  She looked absolutely defeated.

“Err…” Richard said.  “I’m sure you’ve already thought of this, Amanda, but maybe a magnifying glass would help?  I mean, I hear that microfilm dots are easy to miss.  That’s, um, that’s why they make them micro.  Maybe if you…”

But Amanda was shaking her head.  “No,” she said.  “This…this thing I’m looking for…it’s at least three inches long, Richard.  And it would stand out.  There’s no way any of us could miss it.”  She looked at James’s wall clock.  “And it’s much too late now to try looking anywhere else.  Even if I could think of anywhere else to look, which I can’t.”  She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, jaw tightening with a steely grit.  “Right.  Time for plan B.”

James almost didn’t want to ask.  “What’s plan B?”

Her smile was haunted.  “Go in with guns blazing and hope for the best.”  She reached for her coat and donned it, began replacing her various possessions in the pockets.  “Gentlemen, I thank you.  It’s been a rare pleasure.  James…”  Her determination seemed to slip for a bit.  “Can I speak to you outside for a moment?  In private, please.”

“I’ll come looking if he’s not back in ten minutes,” Jeremy warned.

“A sensible precaution,” Amanda said, with another one of those haunted smiles.  “I am a very dangerous woman, after all.  But never fear.  I’ll have him back completely undamaged in five.”  She nodded at the door.  “James?   Shall we?”

It was cold outside, cold enough that James started to shiver.  Amanda shook her head and reached for James’s shirt, carefully doing up the two top buttons he’d left undone.  It was a gesture he was sure Amanda had the power to make seductive beyond measure, but right now it was just rather…motherly.  It was the same when she reached up to straighten his shirt collar.  “I really do understand now what Ben saw in you, you know,” she said softly, hands lingering on his collar.  “Why he so carefully considered telling you the truth about him, about us.  I’m still not a hundred percent sure that I agree with him _not_ telling you, to be honest.  But now that I’ve seen…”  She cocked her head to one side.  “James.  You and Richard and Jeremy…the three of you are together, aren’t you?  Not just as co-workers, and not just as friends.  As lovers.  Life mates.”

Every muscle in James’s body went rigid.  “It’s okay,” Amanda said quickly, resting what he supposed was meant to be a comfortingly hand on his chest.  “Don’t panic, James.  Trust me, you didn’t do anything to give yourselves away.  I’m just very, very good at reading body language.  You three are doing a good job, keeping your secret.  I’m only bringing it up now at all because…” She hesitated.

It took a few tries for James to get his mouth to work.  When he did, his voice was very cold.  “Yes, Amanda,” he said.  “Just why are you bringing this up now?”

She sighed.  “Because…unless the universe is a much, much kinder place than I think it is…the odds are good that someday you ARE going to know the truth,” she said.  “Our truth, I mean.  Ben’s and Duncan’s and Richie’s and mine.  And when that day comes, you’re going to be very, very angry that none of us told you sooner.  So …” She gave his chest a small pat and stepped away.   “When that happens, I want you to remember that the reason I didn’t tell you tonight was because I saw what you had, and I knew how precious it was.  Because I didn’t want our truth to reach out and kill it.”  She lowered her chin, looking surprisingly girlish.  “And it would, James.  Knowing the truth about us is like planting morning glory in your garden.  The flowers can be beautiful, and you might think you’ll be able to keep the vine confined to just one corner, but eventually it chokes out everything else.  I think that’s probably why Ben never told you, either.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful,” James said bitingly.  “Thank you so much, Amanda.  There’s nothing I like better than being kept in the dark.  Treated like a child too young to know the truth about the birds and the bees.”  Amanda started to speak.  James cut her off with one upraised hand.  “Don’t think I don’t see this for what this really is,” he said.  “So you and Ben are involved in something…something supra-governmental, if not just plain illegal.  Fine.  I won’t go to the police, or tell anyone who asks.  I wouldn’t have anyway.”  His lip snarled.  “You didn’t have to use my relationship as blackmail. You really, really didn’t.”

“That’s not what I…” Amanda began heatedly, and cut herself off.  “But there’s no way I can convince you of that,” she finished sadly.  “And I don’t have time to in any case.  James…”

“I only have four questions,” James said.  “Quick and simple.  And I would strongly advise that you tell me the truth.  If you even still know how.”  She winced, but nodded eagerly.  James held up one finger.  “One.  Is Ben’s life really in danger?”

“Yes.”

“And are you really about to risk your own life to save him?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?  Jeremy and Richard and I?”

She stared at him like she couldn’t believe he’d even offered.  “No,” she said after a moment, voice choked.  “No, there really isn’t.  For you, the risks are just too high, and for Jeremy and Richard they are…well, they’re astronomical.  Please don’t ask me to explain.”

“No.  There wasn’t any point in asking my mum where babies came from, either, not before she decided I was old enough to know.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you into making up lies about a stork,” James said bitterly.  He held up his fourth finger.  “Last question, Amanda.  Is there any way I’m ever going to know the outcome of this?  Any chance I’ll ever know whether or not Ben and Richie lived or died tonight?”

“It should all be decided by dawn,” Amanda said.  “Either Ben or I will try to call you then.  But if for some reason we can’t….” She swallowed.  “There is a man you can call and ask.  His name is Joe Dawson.  He runs a bar called ‘Joe’s’, in Seacouver…”

James laughed, a little hysterically.  The pure madness of the day and night were beginning to overwhelm him.  “We’ve met,” he said.  “In the funeral home toilet, remember?  He already gave me a card with his private number.”

For some reason, Amanda seemed to take strength from this.  “Good,” she said fervently.  “Hang onto that card, James.  It’s far more precious than gold.  And I don’t mean just for this current crisis.  Years from now, if anything should happen to you that’s just too strange to believe, Joe is the one you should call.  Trust me.”  She shrugged her shoulders.  “Or if you can’t trust me…and I know I really haven’t given you much reason to, tonight…trust Ben.  I sometimes think that Joe is the only person Ben really trusts in this entire modern world.” 

A police siren started up a few streets away.  It couldn’t have had anything to do with Amanda…if one of James’s neighbors had the seen the strange lights in James’s shed and called the police, they would have been there long before.  But Amanda jumped anyway.  “I have to go,” she said softly.  “James…”

He smiled humorlessly.  “Will I regret wishing you luck?”

“No.  No, James, you won’t,” Amanda said hurriedly.  “Forget I ever said anything about you and Richard and Jeremy, okay?  I wasn’t…I never meant…” The siren sounded again, even louder this time.  Amanda seemed to give up.  “Be well, James,” she said.  And just like that, she was gone.

Gone…somehow blended into the shadows of James’s quite ordinary residential street, moving so soundlessly he couldn’t even pick out her steps by ear.  After a few moments of trying, he gave up and went back indoors.  Jeremy and Richard had cleared enough of a place on his couch so they could sit down, holding each other’s hands.  They stood the moment James entered, identical looks of worried expectancy on their faces. 

“Amanda says it should all be decided by dawn,” James told them.  “She said she’d have Ben call me then, if he can.  If he can’t…” He trailed off, not wanting to face the end of that sentence.

He didn’t have to.  His beloveds stepped up close.  They knew enough about James by now that neither one tried to wrap him in a hug, which was a good thing…he was so tired and overstimulated that an embrace would have just made him feel itchy, instead of loved.  But it was comforting, just having them near.  Especially when Jeremy said, “We’ll stay up with you.”

“Thanks,” James said shakily.  “Come on, help me move the bits of the phonograph off the sofa.  Then…”  He sighed.  “Then I guess we’d better put on another DVD.”

***

In point of fact, neither Richard nor Jeremy stayed awake until dawn.  Jeremy fell asleep first, snoring noisily in a way very reminiscent of both chainsaws and badly tuned motorcycles. Richard succumbed not long afterward, snoring just as loudly under Jeremy’s arm.  James didn’t mind.  In some ways it was nicer not to have them conscious, to feel like he needed to keep them entertained.  This way he had all the peace and privacy his battered soul required along with the comfort of knowing his loves would both wake up instantly if he truly needed them.  He gathered up all the parts of the dissembled phonograph and moved them to the kitchen, intent on putting it back together.

As always, the reassembly centered him, clearing his thoughts more efficiently than any meditation ever could.   Putting together the mechanical jigsaw absorbed him so much there was no time for extraneous thought…so little, in fact, that James didn’t notice when the floor lamp he’d pulled over to illuminate the kitchen table was supplanted by the first rays of sunshine coming through the window.  He might not have noticed it was morning at all, if his phone hadn’t rung.  He snatched it up at once. “Hello?”

“James?  Is that you?”

_Richie._ James grabbed the edge of the kitchen table for support.  “Richie,” he breathed.  “You really are alive.”

“Yeah,” Richie said distractedly.  “For now.  And free, though god only knows how long that will last.”  Over the phone, James heard the sounds of a distant commotion: raised voices, breaking glass.  Richie made a disgusted sound.  “I told Amanda she should have just done it herself,” he mumbled under his breath.  “She could have been in and out of that bank like a hot knife through butter, man. I mean, that woman has _skills_.  But no, Mac had to insist on going with her.  And then Meth…Ben insisted they could carry more cash with another pair of hands…”  There came a sound James could instantly identify as impatient fingers drumming on a steering wheel.  “Anyway,” Richie said.  “I’m calling because Amanda told us what you and Jeremy and Richard did last night, James, helping her to look for …for the thing, even offering to pay ransom if all else failed.  So I wanted to say thank you.  And goodbye.”

“Goodbye?”  James repeated dimly.  “Why goodbye?  Richie, are you and Ben all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re both fine,” Richie said. “Mac and Amanda are, too.  But it was a pretty close thing, James.  Maybe the closest I’ve ever come to really dying…and if you knew the sort of life I’ve really led, you’d know that was saying a lot.  But anyway.”  He sighed, a deep-bone weary sigh that really shouldn’t have come from his twenty-two-year-old throat.  “Like I said, we’re all safe.  Bloody but not broken, just like the old war movies used to say.  The thing is, a lot of really bad shit went down last night, and it’s not safe for any of us to stay in England anymore.  We’re all going to leave the country and go our separate ways just as soon as we’re finished here.  And that’s why I’m calling, James.”  His voice took on an urgent tone.  “Because from what Amanda said, I could tell you still care about Ben and me a lot…enough to go to the police about us when we disappear, maybe even to hire a private investigator to try to track us down.  And you can’t, James.  You really, really can’t.  And not because it’s too dangerous for us, although it would be.  Because it would be far too dangerous for you.”  His voice saddened, but remained determined.  “It would be better if you could forget you ever knew us at all.”

“Better if I--??? Richie, what on earth… “ 

He was interrupted by the sounds of a very loud alarm going off.  “Shit!” Richie exclaimed.  “Got to put you on speaker, James.  Hang on.”  James heard a tiny click, and then all the sounds coming through the phone took on that tinny, echoing quality inherent to all mobile speaker phones.  James could still clearly make out the sound of a high-quality car engine being gunned, though, with enormous power and speed.  “Richie?” he shouted into the phone.  “What in god’s name are you doing?”

“Robbing a bank,” Richie answered.  He sounded distracted, but not nearly as upset as James thought he should have.  “That’s what Mac and Amanda and Ben are all doing, anyway.  I’m just driving the getaway car.”

_“You’re robbing a bank!?!”_

“Well, don’t sound so shocked,” Richie said pettishly.  The engine gunned again.  “It’s not like we’re not going to give the money back…well, Mac and I will; I never know about Amanda and Ben.  We’ve all got plenty of money stashed overseas.”

“Then why--?”

“Because it’s really hard to get a lot of cash out of a bank the normal way when one of you is supposed to be dead, and the other three were just seen fleeing the scene of a quintuple homicide,” Richie answered calmly.  “This is pretty much the only way to get the travel money we need in the kind of hurry we need it in.”

“ _QUINTUPLE HOMICIDE?!?”_

“Yeah.”  Chillingly, Richie sounded even calmer about this than he had about the bank robbery.  “Total bloodbath, man, and of course the building’s a total loss.  We were lucky the damn place didn’t come down around our ears.  They just don’t build ‘em strong enough to take that much voltage nowadays.  I---“  His voice rose, shouting at someone who definitely wasn’t James.  “GET IN THE CAR!!!”

Behind James, the kitchen door opened.  Richard and Jeremy hurried in, both looking sleep tousled and worried—James supposed that one or the other of his shocked shouts had roused them.  He waved a hand at them for silence, intent on listening to the drama unfolding over the phone.  He heard shouting, gunshots, running feet.  The sounds of car doors opening and slamming closed again.   The squealing of tires, the hum of asphalt road.  More gunshots. Then a clatter of plastic-on-plastic and a thump, followed by Richie’s suddenly distant voice.  “Damn,” Richie said.  “Should’ve known the phone would slide off the dashboard the moment I really hit the gas.  Pick it up, will you Mac?  And try not to hit any of the buttons, I’ve got it on speaker.”

A voice that sounded a lot like Duncan MacLeod’s spoke up.  He sounded almost as incredulous as James felt.  “You _called_ someone?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, somewhat breathlessly.  “Just wedge it into the drink holder for now, okay?  Or better yet, hand it to Methos.  It’s James May.”

“You called James?”  a new voice inquired, almost drowned out by the sounds of the engine and the road.  It was clear enough anyway that James’s heart nearly stopped.  Ben.  Oh, god.  Ben.  “Why?”

Richie snorted.  “’Cause I knew the robbery was going to end exactly like this,” he said.  “With the four of us barely getting away with our skins, I mean.  I knew we’d all be too damn busy running for our lives to call him later.  Besides, my cell phone’s a loss anyway.  Amanda’s going to destroy all our SIM cards the moment we stop.  So I figured it was safe to give James a quick call before that happens.  He needed to know we’re all still alive.  And that he shouldn’t try to find us after we disappear.” More thumps, more bumps, and the sound of muffled swearing from Richie.  “Just talk to him for a minute, Methos, okay?  He’s your friend.  He deserves a chance to say goodbye.”

“’Friend?’”  It was the voice James had tentatively identified as MacLeod’s.  James could almost hear the snide quotations he put around the word.  “That’s what you’re calling him, Methos?  Really?”

“Yes, MacLeod, I call James my friend,” Ben—Methos?—said, with a quiet, eloquent dignity that broke James’s heart even as he goggled at the strange name.  “Last I heard, I was still allowed to have those.  Even if they do have an amazing way of winding up dead whenever you’re around.” 

There was a shocked silence.  Then a soft, almost apologetic: “Methos…”

“Just hand me the phone, Highlander,” Ben said tiredly.  “And do try to pretend that you’re not listening in to every word.”  There were the thumps and static crackling of a mobile being passed from hand to hand.  Then suddenly the road noise dropped away, replaced by Ben’s surprisingly strong and calm voice in James’s ear.  “James?”

“Ben,” James breathed shakily.  He honestly didn’t know what to feel.  Later, he’d get seriously drunk and let it all run through him…all the fear and anger and incredulity that were battling for control of his mind.  But for now, only one thing really mattered.  “You’re really all right?”

“Yes,” Ben answered.  He sounded a bit breathless but otherwise okay.  “I’m perfectly fine, James.  A bit inconvenienced, of course.  I’m going to have to leave the country with great speed, and start a new life under a new name someplace else.  It’s a bit like being in witness protection.  All my old ties have to be severed.  But I think you already gathered that, from Richie and Amanda.”

“Yes,” James said.  “Ben...am I still on that damn speakerphone?”

“No,” Ben answered.  “I had a small hands-free headset in my coat pocket—it’s plugged in now.  Only I can hear what you say.”  James nodded…so that was why all the engine noise had suddenly dropped away.  Ben sounded resigned.  “Ask me whatever you need to, James.  I’ll do my best to answer.  Just hurry, please.  We really don’t have much time.”

“I…” James looked at Jeremy and Richard, whispering a quick “Give me a minute of privacy, okay gents?”  They looked very grave but did so, Richard pulling the kitchen door firmly closed behind him.  James swallowed to moisten his dry mouth.  He couldn’t believe he was about to ask what he was about to ask. “Did you and your friends really kill five people tonight, Ben?” he said softly.  “ _Five?”_

“Fuck!”  Ben said, so loudly James jumped.  Ben started apologizing an instant later.  “No, no, James, that wasn’t meant for you,” he said.  “That was meant for the giant speed bump Richie just ignored…sorry.”  A breath.  “And the answer is no.  The, ah, opposing team succumbed to infighting, decided to fight each other for the alleged prize.  Two of them took out two of their own teammates long before Amanda and Duncan even showed up.  The third was killed by Keane, the man who originally kidnapped me and Richie, when he suddenly saw through them and decided to switch sides.  But numbers four and five…”  Ben’s voice roughened.  “Yes. I’m afraid I killed one, and Richie the other. It was self-defense, and there honestly was no other choice.  Either they died, or we did.”  Ben’s voice became very hesitant.  “I hope...I hope you can believe that.”    

“I believe _you,”_ James said immediately.  “I just don’t believe this situation.  That I’m sitting here having this conversation at all.”  He shook his head helplessly.  “Ben.  What are you people?”

“That’s not a question I have the time to answer right now,” Ben said.  “Maybe someday, if we…damn.  We’re almost there.”  James heard a flurry of conversation, muffled into unintelligibleness now that Ben had plugged in his hands-free.  “I have to go,” Ben said hurriedly.  “I know you have thousands of questions, James, but for now…for now, there’s just one question I need to ask you.  I think I already know the answer, but…”  He suddenly sounded oddly shy.  “Your co-presenters.  Did…did you stop hiding from them?”

“Yes,” James whispered.

“And do they see you now?  Really see you?  In every way?”

James got up, opened the door enough that he could look at his beloveds.  At Richard standing with his hands resting on the back of James’s living room couch, completely baffled but standing by, ready to offer whatever support he could.  And at Jeremy, just sort of generally looming and fidgeting in a way that spoke of his discomfort at being forced to stand by and do nothing, but ready to swing into whatever action James asked of him.  James’s heart caught in his throat.  “Yes,” he said, easing the door closed again.  “They really, really do.  And I—I finally see them, too.”

“Then I made the right decision, leaving you with them,” Ben said softly.  “Hang onto them, James.  Cherish every moment you have.  It—“  He cut off abruptly.  Even over the handsfree, James could hear the extremely loud protest of brakes and tires being forced to come to too-sharp a halt, and someone—it had to be Amanda—saying “Methos.  We have to go,” with great urgency.  “We have to go,” Ben repeated.  “Goodbye, James.  Remember what I said.”

“Good-“ James started, but he needn’t have bothered.  The line went dead before he finished the word.

He put the phone down on the table slowly, almost absently pushing aside the few remaining pieces of phonograph so he could.  Then he walked into the living room.  “They’re safe,” he told Richard and Jeremy shakily.  “Safe, but it was touch-and-go, and they all have to leave the country now.  Some sort of witness protection program, Ben said.  They’ll all have to start over in new places, with brand new names.”  He swallowed.  “I don’t think we’ll ever hear from any of them again.  Richie said it would be better if we forgot we’d ever met them at all.”

“Probably safest for them if we did,” Jeremy said, in the gruff tone he used whenever he didn’t want to let on how truly upset he really was.  “Don’t want to compromise their new covers.”

James wanted to snort at that, but he suppressed it.  Ridiculous as Jeremy thinking that Amanda worked for MI6 undoubtedly was, it probably was just easiest to let him go on thinking it.  It wasn’t like James really had a better explanation to offer. 

Richard stepped forward, gathering up James’s hand.  “Nothing that happened here tonight will ever leave this house,” he said.  “Both Jeremy and I will swear to that.”

“We’ll even cut our hands and swear it in blood, if you’d like,” Jeremy agreed.

This time James did snort.   “Don’t think that will be necessary, Jez.  But thanks.”

He slumped against the kitchen door, feeling a grief so sharp it surprised him.  After all, Richie had ceased to be a significant part of his life several years before.  And Ben had been out of it for even longer.  But tonight’s adventures had freshened things, somehow, made him feel the loss of their odd friendship more strongly than he’d ever let himself feel it before.  Richard eyed him with concern. “James,” he said quietly.  “We’ll keep quiet for them, you know we will.  Now.  What can we do for you?”

He swallowed.  “Come upstairs?” he asked hesitantly.  “I know it’s been a ridiculously long night, and we’re all tired.  Too tired to do much, if I’m honest.  But I want…I need…”  He dropped his hands into his lap.  “I need to see you,” he finished.  “And I need you two to see me.”

Richard looked a little puzzled by this.  But Jeremy just lifted James’s hands to his mouth and brushed the knuckles with his lips.  “Anytime, James.”

They all went upstairs together.

***

The next evening—well, all right, it was really only four o’clock in the afternoon, but James’s body clock had gotten so turned around by events that it felt like it should be midnight…Richard kissed James just inside the door, made him promise to call if he needed anything at all, and then went off to spend some much overdue father-daughter time with his girls.  Jeremy lingered half an hour or so longer before James finally kicked him out too, knowing he had a similar date scheduled with his own kids.  That left James with the house to himself…and a mostly-reassembled phonograph to complete, awkwardly taking up all the space on his kitchen table.  Well, there was no point in hauling the thing back up to his attic unfinished. James heated up some leftover takeaway and settled in to finish the job. 

It took a few hours, but they were soothing hours, exactly what James needed.  When he was done, he gave the hand crank several turns and watched with great satisfaction as the rod that should have held a wax cylinder...proud precursor to the flat vinyl record…once again spun with great delicacy and balance.  It was a shame, really, that he didn’t have any of those old cylinders on hand, just to make sure his handiwork tested out.  Maybe he could find one going for cheap on Ebay.  There was no way to tell if he’d really done his job or not without one... 

Oh.  Wait.

He did have wax cylinders in the house.  He had a whole box of them.  _Ben_ had brought them to test the phonograph, the last day he’d ever been in James’s house.  James honestly hadn’t remembered the box until that very moment.  The day Ben had brought them had been so completely crazy, and his emotions about their owner so topsy-turvy and confusing, that James had put the box out of his head entirely.  He had a vague memory of stumbling over it in his front hall a few days after Ben had left, and shoving it into his hallway coat closet just to get it out of the way.  He had an even vaguer memory of shoving the box to the very back of the closet with his toe in order to make room for Richard’s surprisingly large collection of muddy wellies a year or two later.  But out of sight was out of mind, and James would probably have forgotten the box’s presence forever, if he hadn’t reassembled the phonograph now.  If he hadn’t taken it apart the night before with Amanda.  Looking for something Amanda genuinely believed Ben might have left in his care without James knowing.

James almost hurt himself, sprinting for the hall.

The box was right where he last remembered seeing it.  It was a very old, very crumbly cardboard box, printed with the words “Meyer’s Best Infant Formula” and a 1940’s stylized logo of a woman holding a baby in her arms.  It made James wonder heartily where Ben had gotten it, but he supposed it made a kind of sense.  Stacked cans of infant formula would have been roughly the same size as the wax cylinders, making the box a good choice for whoever had originally re-purposed it.  And indeed, whoever had filled the box with the cylinders had done so with great care.  Not only was each one still wrapped in its original paper label and storage tube, but they all had carefully crumpled brown paper around them, to cushion them from drops and shocks.  Somebody, once upon a time, had cared about this box’s contents a lot.  James hauled the whole kit and caboodle back to his kitchen, where he unpacked it with equal care.

The first thing he found was a small quartz crystal.  It wasn’t wrapped in paper at all, but rattling around loose in the top of the box.  James hefted it in his hand thoughtfully.  The thing was pretty enough, he supposed, but completely unexceptional; you could find them in any rock shop or whacko “metaphysical” supply store in the land.  Odd to find it inside a box of vintage recordings, but that’s how it was with old things; jewelry and buttons and kid’s tiny natural treasures all tended to find their ways into the most surprising places.  James had once found a carefully preserved wasp’s nest—long since abandoned by all its former occupants, thank goodness--tucked into a box of toy trains.  He got up, pondering what do with the crystal, then tucked it into the pot of the golden pothos plant someone at work had given him, which was still struggling valiantly for life on the windowsill above his kitchen sink.  An aunt of his had once put crystals in all of her houseplants’ pots, to “increase the positive energy and help them grow”.  Heaven knew, this poor plant could use all the help it could get.  Then James turned back to the box.  He was much more interested in the collection of cylinders.

One by one, James took the cylinders from the box, smoothing out the paper and decorating his kitchen counters with the musical hits of yesteryear.  _My Wild Irish Rose.  Come with Me, Josephine, in My Flying Machine. Yes, We Have No Bananas._ The cylinders had dates ranging from 1904 to 1925, and seemed to be mostly American in origin…except for a cluster near the bottom that were all from one British artist, the tenor Ernest Pike.  It wasn’t a name James expected most modern people would recognize, but he knew it well, both because of his musical studies and because of his interest in all things World War One. Pike had recorded many of the hits British soldiers had sung to keep their spirits up on battlefields and in hospitals overseas.  And indeed, most of those hits seemed to be collected here in this box.  James picked out _Roses of Picardy,_ placed it in the player, turned the crank and held his breath.  When the melodic tenor voice filled the room, surprisingly loud and clear despite all the old-fashioned cylinder’s hisses and pops, he smiled for the first time in days.

Four cups of tea and countless hand-cranks later, James had played his way through most of the box’s contents.  The final cylinder, tucked into the very bottom corner of the box, was different from its brothers.  Its wax was a light grey color instead of black or navy, and there was no artist or song title printed on the label, just “Munson’s Music Shop” stamped in blurry black letters. James thought he knew what it was.  Music shops from that era sometimes let customers record brief messages on such cylinders, as a gimmick to get more people to buy the players.  And indeed, when James played it, he heard a single male voice, unoccupied by any instruments.  “Hello,” said a cheerful voice.  “My name is Ernest Pike.  Today is May Fourth, 1926, and I am recording this in Munson’s Music Shop with my dear friend Piers Benson.  Say hello, Piers…”

The gramophone wound down.

James immediately sprang out of his chair to wind it back up.  His heart was pounding, and not in a pleasant way.  Could this recording be what Ben’s kidnappers had been after? Surely, a previously undocumented, amateur recording from a star like Pike would be worth some money...but somehow, James doubted it could possibly have been worth five lives.  He gave the player a few extra cranks for good measure, moved the needle back a little, and re-started the cylinder spinning.

“…with my good friend Piers Benson.  Say hello, Piers…”

“I’d really rather not,” said a new voice.  A heart-stoppingly familiar one.  “I have no desire to record my words for posterity, Ernest.  You are the one with the famous silver voice.  And the ego that demands you seize any opportunity to show it off.”

The first voice chuckled.  “You’re right, my friend,” he said.  “I will use any excuse to sing…even recording in a little shop like this.  Ah, but I see two lovely ladies, Piers, hovering just outside the door.  Window shopping, no doubt.  Shall we see if my ‘silver voice’ can entice them inside?”

“You’re a married man, Ernest.”

“Yes, but you are not,” the singer retorted.  “And perhaps one of these fair damsels is just the woman to change that unhappy state.  Let’s find out!”  And he promptly launched into a spirited rendition of “Yessir, That’s My Baby.”

The song choked out in mid note.  James wasn’t surprised.  These early cylinders only had a recording time of two minutes; he was frankly amazed that the singer had managed to record as much music as he had.  But despite being only 120 seconds long, and incomplete, the recording still had the power to haunt him.  He instantly moved the needle back, played the section where the second man had spoken, then played it again, and again.  By the fifteenth repetition, he was certain.

The second voice…”Piers Benson’s”… belonged to Ben Adamson.

No.  He had to be wrong.  He had to be.  The recording was unquestionably not up to modern standards, nowhere near clear enough to make a positive ID.  But still.  That cadence, that accent, that sharp, sardonic wit…the maker of the recording could well have been Ben’s secret twin.  Not to mention the names.  Piers Benson, Ben Adamson…that couldn’t be a coincidence.  Could it?

James grabbed his laptop and dove in online.

Just after ten pm, he found an old photo, posted lovingly on the Ernest Pike Fan Society web site.  It was from a garden party, taken in early 1925.  Mr. Pike was front and center, posing with his wife--the caption informed James that they were celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary.  The happy couple took up most of the photo.  But leaning against a fence in the background, a tall glass of beer cradled in his fingers and his head and shoulders slumped in a way James knew well, was a tall, slender, dark haired man.  He was wearing 1920’s clothing and his hair looked very odd, being parted on the side and slicked down straight with pomade in the fashion of the day.  But even so, his face was unmistakable.

Ben.

James’s thoughts started coming very quickly then, conclusion following rapidly upon conclusion with a speed that would have done Sherlock Holmes proud.  Suddenly, the events of the last few days began to make sense.  Surely, many people would believe that the ability to live from 1923 to 2015 without aging a day was worth killing for.  So would the ability to survive a gunshot to the head, as Richie seemed to have done.  James rather doubted that this ability was anything that could be bought or passed on; if there was a secret formula for immortality out there, surely someone would have patented it by now and have made their billions selling it in every corner chemist’s.  But even if it was just something inherent in Ben and Richie themselves…a rare genetic mutation perhaps…there would still be plenty of people willing to kill to get their hands on them.  People willing to pay any price for a spy or soldier that could not die.  Or a human lab rat…

God.  No wonder Richie had said it would be safest for James just to forget he’d ever met them at all.

James’s phone vibrated suddenly, breaking his train of thought. James got it out of his pocket just in time to see the text flicker across the screen.  _R U awake?_

Of all the people James knew, Richard was the only one who texted him like a teenager.  Not even Jeremy’s kids did, and they actually were teenagers.  He quickly typed a reply.  _Yes.  You too?_

_Girls have consumed their fill of pizza and age-appropriate movies and r now safe @ home with their mum,_ came the response.  _Jez is done with his kids for the night 2, I’m with him now.  We can come by and stay the night at urs, if u need us._ The second James finished reading this, the phone vibrated again.

_Or just want us. J._

The dopiest, stupidest smile imaginable touched James’s lips.  It was a good thing there wasn’t a mirror in the kitchen, he didn’t really want to be forced to witness it visually.  Feeling it, though, was a different matter, and he took a moment to savor the sensation as he imagined his two loves together, Jeremy impatiently grabbing the mobile out of Richard’s hand to text James rather than taking the extra five seconds to use his own.  The fact that they’d texted rather than just showing up was important too, since it meant that they were willing to take no for an answer—if James needed to spend the night by himself, he could, and there would be no hard feelings.  But tonight solitude was the last thing he wanted, and he texted back as quickly as he could type.  _Always,_ he said.  _Both want AND need.  Come as fast as you can._

It took less than ten seconds for the phone to buzz again.  _20 min._

_Make that fifteen. J_

James snickered softly.  He doubted they’d make it in less than thirty—especially if they came together, and therefore had to waste time arguing about which car to take and who would drive it.  But their eagerness touched him anyway, filling his body with a sweet, sparkling anticipation that was one part sexual and two parts just plain love.  He started to stand, mind already filling with plans for the hours ahead: the way they’d touch each other, the way it would feel.  And then his eyes fell across his laptop screen, which was still zoomed in on Ben’s—Piers’s—unmistakable face.  

James May knew himself to be a man who loved his puzzles.  To him, the universe was filled with things just waiting to be understood.  And while he knew there would always be some things he couldn’t, had come to terms with that sad fact the same way he’d come to terms with racial prejudice and global hunger and his own inability to do much about either, he’d never been happy about it.  Deep inside, he still felt that everything should be understandable…fixable, too… if he just tried hard enough.  And so the child he’d once been might very well have been tempted to try to understand this.  To undo the screws and look under the metaphorical cover plate of Ben’s life until he’d learned every nuance of Ben’s secret.  And Richie’s and Amanda’s and Duncan’s, as well.

But...James was a man now, not a boy.  He now knew that when you started poking around under the covers of things without knowing how they worked first, you were far more likely to destroy rather than fix.  And he also…thanks to three years of his clandestine love affair with Jeremy and Richard… now understood the true power of secrets.  How overwhelming they could be.  How many lives they could potentially shatter if they ever became widely known. 

Ben and Amanda had both seemed to believe that what James had in his life now was far too valuable to shatter with dangerous truths.  And James was inclined to agree.

Besides.  Obscure warnings aside, the fact of the matter was that Ben had kept James’s most powerful secret…that he was a closeted gay man in love with his two co-presenters…for more than three years, now.  Could James could do any less for him?

He closed down his laptop…then, after a moment’s thought, opened it up again and deleted the night’s browsing history, just in case.  He briefly considered taking the store-recorded cylinder to his bank deposit box, but ultimately decided against it.  Perhaps someday, someone would wonder why James had treated it with such distinction, and ask questions best left unasked.  Instead, he packed the cylinder back with all its fellows into the old baby formula box and hauled the box up to the farthest corner of his attic, to be lost amongst all his other treasures/junk in peaceful, dust-covered obscurity.  He did the same thing with the phonograph, though moving the heavy machine took far longer than it should have, and used up every last ounce of his strength.  James arrived back downstairs just in time to open the door to Jeremy and Richard, the latter of whom kissed him the second the door was closed, then stumbled back with a sneeze.  “Don’t know what you’ve been doing with yourself today, mate,” he said archly, “but you’re dustier than Jeremy’s little black book.  If you think I’m getting into bed with you before you take a shower, you’d better think again.”  His eyes lit up.  “Maybe you should let Jeremy and me help you with the soaping up part.”

“Yes,” Jeremy agreed, claiming James for a kiss…and then a sneeze…of his own.  “An excellent idea, James.  We can help you make sure you get off every sneeze-inducing speck.”

James couldn’t agree quickly enough.

He left the little rock crystal from the cylinder box exactly where it was, tucked into the pot of the golden pothos plant.  It seemed as good a place as any to leave it.  The crystal wasn’t anything special, after all.

But the next morning, the much-tried little houseplant sprouted two new leaves.


	3. Chapter 3

**~2016~  
~TWO YEARS LATER~**

"Bloody hell, James.”  Sim stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the mass of leafy greenery climbing up James’s window, his cabinets, and much of the kitchen wall.  “That’s not a houseplant, that’s a leafy barracuda.  Are you sure it’s never eaten one of your cats?”

“Don’t even suggest such a thing.”  James pretended to look around him worriedly, lowering his voice to a mock whisper.  “I don’t want to give him ideas.”

All mocking aside, James sometimes did have to wonder if his golden pothos plant…long since christened “Roland” by Richard, for the completely inadequate reason that “he just looks like a Roland, don’t you think?”…did possess a demonic soul.   Once upon a time, Roland had been a single straggly vine in a pot, with four equally straggly leaves.  But over the last year and a half he had miraculously grown and divided into nearly a dozen main branches, each bearing more leaves than James could count.  He’d been shocked one day to measure Roland’s longest vine and discover that it stretched out nearly thirty feet.  He quite understood Sim’s apprehension.  “Look, it’s not too late to back out,” James said contritely.  “I really did want to find a good home for Roland before I left for the States, and you’re one of the few people I can trust to actually water and fertilize him regularly.  But if it’s too much to ask…”

The Grand Tour was about to officially begin production, and James was preparing to spend several months overseas.  He’d already stopped the paper delivery and turned off the fridge, making sure there was nothing left inside that could mutate into a new lifeform.  His two cats were booked into their “extended holiday hotels”, one being looked after by Richard’s daughters, the other by James’s mum.  Which only left Roland in need of a temporary home.  “It’s all right, mate,” Sim said.  “I said I’d take in your weirdly prolific and even more weirdly named houseplant, and I will.” He sighed.  “But we might have to prune him a bit to fit him in my car.”

In the end, they managed without any pruning, simply by gently pulling Roland’s ridiculously long vines off the walls and wrapping them in circles ‘round his pot until he resembled a leafy green tire.  Sim promised that he’d do his best to unwrap the vines and allow Roland to expand back to his full former glory once he got him into his own kitchen, something James was secretly quite grateful for.  In the madness and chaos that had been his last few years--Argentina, The Fracas and its aftermath, being out of work for the first time in over a decade—there had been times when walking into the kitchen and discovering that Roland had commandeered yet another foot of wall with his glossy green leaves had been one of James’s greatest comforts.  It was nice to be around something that was obviously happy and healthy, growing serenely while the rest of James’s world fell apart.

Though, amazingly? His world seemed to be remaking itself quite satisfactorily now.  Their contract for the new show with Amazon was a coupe of the highest order.  James had also just finished putting the finishing touches on a new series of his own—“The Reassembler”—the filming of which had been absolute James May heaven.  And while James still privately had some doubts about how the public would receive it…because really, how many people could honestly be expected to enjoy half an hour of James sitting in a shed with a cup of tea, painstakingly putting together old technology no one cared about anymore?...the BBC was extremely pleased with it, pleased enough to have already ordered a second series.  There was no question about it, things were definitely looking up.  From the ashes of the old Top Gear, a new phoenix was rising. 

James couldn’t wait to see just how far it would fly.

Sim lifted Roland’s pot with a theatrical grunt, then frowned as something clear and shiny spilled out onto James’s kitchen floor.  “What was that?” he asked.  “Some new kind of stick fertilizer?”

“Oh, no,” James said.  “Just an old rock.”  He bent to retrieve the quartz crystal before Sim, who was pretty much blinded in the downward direction by the leafy burden in his arms, could tread on it.  He held it up so Sim could see.  “A quartz crystal.  See?”

“Pretty, I guess,” Sim said, in the tones of a man who generally doesn’t see beauty in much beyond the perfect timing of an engine.  “Where’d you get that?”

“Found it in a box of old recordings.  Seemed disrespectful just to chuck it out into the garden.”  James hefted the little crystal thoughtfully.  “Maybe I’ll hang onto it.  Carry it as a good-luck piece for the new show.”

“Your call, mate,” Sim said, as used by now to James’s many peculiarities as a duck was to water.  “Certainly didn’t seem to do this plant any harm…oi!”  One of Roland’s tightly wound vines had come un-tucked and had sprung, tentacle-like, up to touch Sim’s nose.  Sim froze in place.  “Tell me, please,” he said, voice strained, “that that was just an accident of physics, James.  Not evidence of actual sentience.  Otherwise I’m going to worry every night that I’ll wake up to find your damn plant has eaten my face.”

James chuckled.  “As far as I know, Roland’s not carnivorous,” he said, hurrying to re-tuck the offending vine.  “I have to admit that I haven’t seen a mouse about the place in a very long time, though.”

“Great,” Sim said resignedly.  “Well, maybe the fact that we’ll shortly be mouse-free will resign my wife to living in Little Shop of Horrors.”  He shrugged awkwardly at the door.  “Come on then.  Get the door for me.  Might as well get your monster plant home and learn the worst.”  James hurried to do so, sniggering gently as Sim had to turn sideways to fit Roland through the door.  “And James?”

“Yes, Sim?”

“In case I haven’t said…I’m really going to miss you, mate.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.”

***

The security girl at Heathrow noticed James’s crystal when he emptied his pockets, smiled at James brightly and told him it was pretty.  The young man manning the kiosk where James bought a bottle of water before boarding his flight noticed it too, as did both the nine-year-old girl and her forty-something mother who sat beside him in the waiting area.  James supposed this was largely his own fault.  He’d quickly gotten into the habit of taking his new luck charm out of his pocket and rubbing it with his thumb whenever he was feeling bored or anxious, as he inevitably was when standing in airport queues…and airports were just boring enough places that people would seize upon any distraction.  James didn’t really blame people for noticing his crystal and wanting to talk about it.  But he did end up having far more dull conversations about people’s childhood rock collections then he’d ever expected to have.

One conversation was not dull.  It was extremely peculiar.  James had just reclaimed his shoes and carry-on from the conveyor belt and his crystal from the rock-loving security girl when the man a few places ahead of him stiffened.  He swung his head around, looking into each and every corner of the room…James, watching his neck arch and his nostrils flare, was reminded unsettlingly of an arctic wolf, trying to scent prey on the wind.  Then the man’s eyes fell on James, and the similarities between him and a wolf became even more obvious.  James had often seen hunger like that in animals before…but never in anything domesticated. No, that kind of need was a strict property of the wild.  The man smiled at him, and it was just like a predator baring his teeth.  “A pretty trinket,” he said.  “But not of any great value, I believe.”

“Ah, no,”  James said.  “I’m really just carrying it as a luck charm, I suppose.” 

“I see.  But only the unskilled believe in luck, my friend.  And they learn the errors of their ways all too swiftly.”  He nodded at something above them.  James followed his gaze, and saw a camera pointed directly at them.  “It’s a shame that we’ve just gone through security,” the man said.

“Erm,” James said hesitantly.  Truthfully, he always thought going through security was rather a shame himself, especially since it seemed to take longer--and the searches seemed to get more invasive--each and every year.  But it seemed an odd thing for a complete stranger to say.  “I suppose.  It’s better than getting blown up by terrorists, though.”

The odd man’s smile broadened, as if he and James were sharing a good inside joke.   “Unfortunately, I’m already late for my flight, and have no time to delay,” he said.  “This is not the place, in any event.  But perhaps our paths will cross again.”

“Um…perhaps?” James said doubtfully, looking at the man as if he’d sprouted another head.  The man executed a smart, sharp bow; James could have sworn he actually heard the stranger’s heels click.  Then he swept up his suitcase and disappeared into the crowd.  And James did his best to dismiss him from his mind. 

But he’d remember him the very next week, when someone else stared at him in just the same, ravenous manner in the lobby of his Seacouver hotel—this time a slender Japanese man, whose pink dyed Mohawk made him look like an Asian Mr. T.  And again the week after that, when James couldn’t avoid the stare of the oddly brash and self-confident teenager sipping chai at Starbucks.  And again a few days after that, meeting the piercing gaze of the painfully well-groomed businessman at the library…

Eventually, as he and Jeremy and Richard began travelling all over the world to film features for the new series, a pattern emerged.  James would walk into some kind of public place…a restaurant, a theatre, a store…and somewhere, another patron would suddenly freeze.  He’d begin looking frantically around, until his gaze finally fell on James, expression filled with exactly the same sort of hunger as the odd man at Heathrow.  After that…well, it varied.  Sometimes the strangers would resolutely turn their backs on James, ignoring him utterly.  More often they’d get up, look pointedly James’s way, and then make for the nearest exit…James always got the impression that they wanted James to follow.  Only once did one come over to speak to James directly, and then it was the most awkward, stilted small talk imaginable.  This particular stranger seemed very keen to know if James would be staying in his city long, and seemed relieved beyond measure when James said that he would not.  He gave James a little old-fashioned bow not unlike the man at Heathrow’s, though mercifully minus the heel clicks, and actually backed away across the room instead of simply turning around to take his leave.  Leaving James even more baffled than he’d been before.

It didn’t happen every day.  Hell, it didn’t even happen in every country.  But it still happened enough to be disquieting…especially since, try as he would, James couldn’t figure out the reason behind all these odd reactions.  The people who engaged in them seemed to come from all walks of life, representing all races, all ages, all levels of wealth.  James could only identify three common factors.  First, there was that hunger, a predatory greed that never failed to make James’s skin prickle.  Second, there was a tendency towards physical fitness, a certain way of standing and moving that for some reason always reminded James of Richie and Ben.  And finally, the stare-ers were always male. 

Well, no.  That wasn’t quite true.  At the filming kick-off party Amazon threw them, one young woman—she turned out to be the new up-and-coming Amazon VP of something-or-other, James never quite figured out what-- had stared at James for so long over her champagne that Richard had finally gotten fed up and gone to introduce himself.  After the obligatory handshakes and the “my-goodness-you’re-really-The-Richard-Hammond”s, Richard had leaned in close.  “Couldn’t help but notice your interest in my mate James, there,” he’d said in a conspiratorial whisper that nonetheless managed to carry to where James was standing, some fifteen feet away.  “And I’m sure he’s flattered, but I thought it best to have a little word.  I know it’s hard to believe, given that shirt he’s wearing, but he’s already taken.  Been off the market for ages now.  Just thought you should know.”

The woman had blinked…and for a moment, had looked almost as embarrassed as James had felt.  But she regrouped quickly.  “I’m very glad to hear it,” she said with a smile.  “My name’s Kate.  Kate Sunderland. Perhaps you could introduce us, Richard?”

And so Richard did.  Kate, it turned out, possessed considerable social poise, and a knowledge of vintage motorcycles well beyond her apparent years.  James actually quite enjoyed making small talk with her, at least until Jeremy decided that James was enjoying himself _too_ much and made up an excuse to drag him away.  It was really quite strange, though.  Several times James got the impression that Kate was talking about far more than motorbikes; she made several odd comments that made James think she thought they were having a different conversation altogether.  But that was hardly unusual for James when he was talking to women.  He had long been convinced that the sex had their own language that only vaguely resembled the English he knew.  Anyway, the main point was this. Of all the people who had taken to staring at James across crowded rooms since he’d left England, Kate was the only woman.  The rest were, without exception, male.

Eventually, even Jeremy noticed.  “Is it me,” he said a few weeks later in Italy, taking a long, considering sip of his champagne, “Or has that gentleman in the ridiculous looking opera-cape spent the last ten minutes eye-fucking James?  Richard?  What do you think?”

“Oh, yeah,” Richard agreed, contentedly sipping from his own champagne flute.  “That bloke was in the amphitheater undressing James with his eyes during the entire second act.  Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he followed us here on purpose.  That sort of thing has been happening to James quite a lot lately.”   He threw James a saucy look, giving the stem of his champagne glass a very suggestive...and very unnecessary…rub with his thumb.  “I think that latent gaydar of yours is finally kicking in, James.”

James flushed, completely avoiding looking in the direction of the gentleman in question as he attempted to hide his tuxedo-clad self even more deeply within the Italian shadows.  The three of them were in Florence, busily filming what would eventually become the “The Grand Tour Goes On A Grand Tour” feature that would air in season one’s episode three.  After a glorious morning and afternoon spent driving wonderful cars through the gorgeous Tuscan countryside, they’d all gotten dressed in black tie to attend an outdoor performance of the opera _Carmen—_ yes, even Richard, although his attendance hadn’t been filmed.  Once they’d gotten the obligatory footage of James and Jeremy sitting in the audience and Richard being a comically endearing arse outside, the crew had packed up and dispersed, leaving the presenters to their own devices.  When Jeremy had sent their security off along with the crew, James had been sure that he wanted to go explore some of the nearby bars and night clubs.  Much to his surprise, though, Jeremy had suggested staying and watching the opera instead. Richard had even gone back to the hotel to change into his own tuxedo so he could join them.  

James wasn’t really an opera fan.  But the chance to hear any kind of live music expertly performed was always a treat—and sharing it with Jeremy and Richard was even more of one.  There was an open-air café in the plaza just outside the amphitheater, one that often catered to opera patrons during intermission.  When James and Jeremy and Richard wandered outside between acts two and three they had been met by a waiter bearing champagne flutes and a variety of delicious Italian finger-foods.  The stars above had been brilliant, the night air deliciously refreshing…in short, James had been enjoying the romance of the night immensely.  At least, he had until he’d noticed Mr. Opera Cloak, eyeing him in that predatory way he was slowly becoming so familiar with. 

Being so industriously eye-fucked…James shuddered as he mentally repeated Jeremy’s crude term, but really, there wasn’t any other way to describe it… by a random stranger was bad enough.  But having Richard and Jeremy notice it too, and enduring the inevitable teasing—well.  That didn’t even bear thinking about.  “Bollocks,” James said, in a vain attempt to distract them.  “He’s looking at all of us.  Probably a fan trying to get up the nerve to ask you for an autograph, Jez.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Richard answered, eyeing the stranger judiciously.  “His attention’s entirely on you, James.  Practically laser-focused.  I don’t see why you’re so upset about it, though.  He’s really pretty good looking, if you don’t mind the freaky Phantom-of-the-Opera stalker vibe…oh!  Shit!  He’s coming this way!” 

Richard, who had been carrying all their programs, quickly handed one to Jeremy.  They both raised them and turned away, pretending to be completely absorbed by the paragraphs attempting to explain _Carmen_ ’s relevance to modern-day society.  James tried to grab his own program, but Richard was too quick for him—he handed James’s program to Jeremy, who folded it into his.  James was left, abandoned and without any easy means of camouflage, as the eye-fucking stranger approached. 

The man stopped maybe three feet in front of James, looking directly into James’s eyes.  He said nothing, but after a long, pregnant moment he ran his hand down the front of his ridiculously antiquated opera cloak, moving it from chest to waist in something like a caress.  He very obviously licked his lips.  Then he nodded and inclined his head toward one of the narrow, winding cobblestone streets that radiated away from the plaza, his invitation unspoken, but still unmistakable.  A moment later, he had spun around on his heel and disappeared down the street. 

“Holy shit,” Richard said dimly, lowering his program as the stranger faded into the side street’s shadows.  He seemed rather stunned.  “Did that really just happen?”

“I think it really did,” James answered.  He looked at his companions blankly.  “Erm.  _What_ just happened, exactly?”

Jeremy snorted derisively.  “I think you’ve just been invited to suck that gentleman off in the alley behind the theatre, James,” he said.  “Or perhaps he wanted to pleasure you.  One must expect these little lapses in nuance when communicating across cultures.  Still, the larger meaning was plain.”  He tossed his two programs irritably at Richard.  “Hammond?  You say this sort of thing has been happening to May a lot lately?”

Richard blinked.  “Yeah, ever since we started working on the new show,” he said.  “All kinds of blokes have been finding James fascinating.  But this is the first time anyone has been quite so forward about it _.”_

“Hmmm,” Jeremy grumbled.  “Must be that new haircut, James.  I knew it made you look far too edible for your own good.”  It was Jeremy’s turn to blink as both James and Richard stared at him.  “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Richard said, hiding a smile.  “It’s just…you weren’t so complimentary the first time you saw James’s new look, Jez.  ‘Looks as ridiculous as a sheep shorn by a blind man’, I think were your exact words.”

“Yes, well,” Jeremy said dismissively.  “It may have taken me a while to get used to it.  Still made me want to throw him up against a wall and shag him silly the first time I saw it, though.  And apparently I’m not the only one.”  He looked at James, who despite being very startled—he hadn’t known until that very moment that Jeremy liked his new, shorter, unquestionably more stylish hair at all—could easily see the fierce protectiveness in Jeremy’s eyes.  He had a feeling that if they’d been alone, Jeremy would have reached for his hand, or staked his claim in some even more unmistakable way.  Jeremy’s voice dropped into a quiet, rumbly growl.  “Clearly, Richard and I have got to start keeping a closer eye on you, James.”

“Too right,” Richard said, even more quietly.  And he did reach for James’s hand.  Right there, right in the middle of the plaza.  Where anybody could have seen. 

It was probably the most public declaration of affection either of his lovers had ever made.  Dangerous as that was, it still warmed James down to his soul…and made him shift uncomfortably within his tuxedo, painfully aware that the trousers had suddenly grown a size too tight.  “Right,” he said quietly.  “Well…intermission is almost over, gentlemen.  Let’s go watch that foul seductress Carmen meet her tragic end, shall we?  Then we can go back to the hotel.  Where the two of you can…keep an eye on me…doing anything you’d like.” 

Richard smirked. 

So did Jeremy.

James had a feeling he was in for a very memorable night.

And he was.  Just not for the reasons he’d originally anticipated.

***

Carmen had sung her last, the final act had ended in a triumphant burst of music and applause, and James and Jeremy and Richard were now…lost.  This really should have been impossible, given that their hotel was less than a quarter of a mile from the theatre.  But the streets of Florence were labyrinthine at the best of times, and being nicely blurred by good champagne didn’t help.  The third time they walked by the same Renaissance-era street fountain, expertly, if rather disturbingly, sculpted into the shape of a water-vomiting fish, Richard stopped in his tracks.  “Right,” he said.  “I have a feeling we’re going to be walking around in circles for hours, and that champagne’s gone right through me kidneys.  Stay right here, gents.  I’m going down that alley for a piss.”

“Richard, this is a civilized country,” James objected—though not nearly as strenuously as he would have if he’d been less drunk.  “You can’t just piss in the street.”

“Why not? The Italians have been doing it for centuries,” Jeremy said.  Richard grinned and scampered off down the alley.  “Oh, let him go,” Jeremy said to James, when he would have protested further.  “I’ll bet cold hard cash that much worse things have happened to these ancient stones.  Besides, it’ll give us another chance to consult La Google.” He took out his phone and put on a pair of reading glasses, peering at the illuminated screen uncertainly.  “Where do you reckon we went wrong?  That last turn at the sickly trout?  Or…”

“I believe,” said a mellifluous Italian-accented voice, smoother than silk, “that you made your error when you first left the opera plaza.  You should have gone north, not west, if you wished to reach your hotel.”

Mr. Opera Cloak was standing a few paces behind them, his tall, broad-shouldered form completely blocking the narrow street.  In the dim light filtering down between the tall buildings, he looked like an extra from a bad vampire movie.  Ridiculous, really.  But also quite threatening, in a coldly-sweating, heart-pounding way James didn’t want to admit he felt.  He tried to make his voice sound merely curious, not frightened.  “Have you been following us?”

“ _Naturalmente_ ,” said the stranger with a smile.  “You would not follow me, little one.  So what choice did I have but to follow you?”  He turned to Jeremy.  “Go now, tall man.  There is only one hotel within walking distance an Englishman like you would patronize.  If you follow this street back to the opera house, anyone there can direct you.  I advise you to leave at once.”  The predatory smile came back.  “Your handsome friend and I have a Game to play, _capisci_?”

“ _Non,”_ Jeremy said forcefully.   He tucked his glasses into his pocket and took a step forward, blocking the stranger’s access to James.  “Look, mate.  I know that, ah, this sort of thing works differently on the continent than it does back in Jolly Old England.  That’s good, that’s fine… diversity’s a wonderful thing.  And I can certainly understand how you might have gotten the wrong impression about my good friend James here…lots of people do, after all…”

“Gee, Jeremy,” James said caustically.  “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Jeremy said.  He nodded at the stranger, lifting his arms in his very best “appease the loudly grumbling audience” fashion.  “But even if he was looking for, ah, male companionship tonight…which believe me, he most definitely is not…having quickies with strangers has never been his style.  Trust me on this.  He’s not interested.”  Jeremy’s appeasing tone vanished, changed into a firm command.  “ _Capisci?”_

The stranger ignored him.  He just continued looking at James, plainly beginning to grow impatient.  “Your friend doesn’t understand our ways.”

“ _Our_ ways?”  James repeated incredulously.  “Look chap, I don’t know who’ve you mistaken me for, but you and I don’t have any 'ways', not in common.  And I’m really not interested in acquiring any.” 

“Ah,” said the man, with an infuriatingly patronizing smile.  “But that is the very heart and essence of the Game, is it not?  We never choose it.  It chooses us, always.”  He nodded dismissively toward Jeremy.  “I will give you…oh…another sixty seconds to convince your fat friend to go, little one.  Then I will draw my sword.  And he will learn more of ‘our ways’ than any mortal should.”

“’Draw your ‘sword’?’” Jeremy repeated incredulously.  “What, so you’re just going to whip it out right here?  Fuck.  I’d heard Italian men were brazen, but this is ridic…” 

He trailed off with a squeak.  Because in one smooth motion, the stranger had shrugged his opera cape off onto the cobbles, and a sword was in his hand.  Not the euphemistic, sword-of-flesh James had half expected, but a genuine metallic blade. 

It was nearly five feet long.

_Zweihänder,_ James’s inner ten-year-old, who had gone through a brief arms-and-armory phase, supplied.  _From the German for “two hands”, meaning a sword so large it requires both hands to wield it.  Developed during the late middle ages and used mostly by Swiss and German mercenaries, reputedly able to decapitate several people with a single blow.  Quite, quite lethal._ The stranger seemed to know how to wield it, too.  At least, his grip was sure as he lifted the metallic beast, raising it overhead as if he intended to decapitate James right then and there.  “Fight me,” the man growled. 

And James was backing up slowly, wondering just how the hell two fat, middle-aged car show hosts were supposed to even begin fighting off a perverted Italian sex maniac _armed with a fucking huge sword_ , when a terrific crashing noise split the air.  Opera Cloak looked stunned.  Then his eyes rolled upward into his head, and he crumpled like a puppet with cut strings. 

Richard was standing directly behind him, the shattered remains of some terra cotta pottery in his hands.  “Flower pot,” he said desperately.  “Nicked it off that doorstep over there so I could hit him over the head.  I didn’t know what else to do.”  He stared down at the crumpled figure, looking as if he was about to vomit.  “Is he…is he dead???”

Jeremy was already kneeling.  He fumbled with his phone, turning on the flashlight function.  “Still breathing,” he said, shining the light in the stranger’s face.  “You knocked him out cold, though, and cut his head in several places.  That gash on his forehead’s pretty deep.”  He glanced back at James.  “James.  _What the bloody hell just happened?”_

“I don’t know,” James said shakily.  “I honestly don’t know.”  He sank down against the high alley wall, wrapping his arms around his knees.  “Was that a real sword?  Not just a prop or a kid’s toy or something?”

“Let me see.”  Jeremy stretched out one of his long arms, picked up the sword by the hilt.  “Dunno.  Feels kind of light to be the real thing…”

“No.” Richard was still pale, but serious.  “No, I went to a living history day with the girls last summer, got to heft a bunch of old weapons.  Real swords are lighter than you’d think.  They had to be, so you could, er, stab lots of people in a fight without your arm dropping off from exhaustion.”  He nodded at the sword.  “Test the edge, Jez.  If it’s sharp, that’ll tell us if he really meant business, or if he was just trying to scare the shit out of us.”

“I really don’t think…” James began. But too late.  Because Jeremy, in typical intrepid (AKA brainless) Clarkson fashion, had already touched his thumb to the blade.  He pulled back instantly, swearing and bringing his thumb to his mouth. 

“Oi! I didn’t mean to test it on your hand, you stupid arse,” Richard exclaimed.  “Here, bring it here.  Let me see it.”  Jeremy did so, handing his phone to Richard so Richard could shine the light on his wound.  They both stared at the long, deep slash of scarlet, already beginning to drip blood down Jeremy’s wrist.  “Fuck,” Richard said.  “I don’t think you’re going to need stitches, Jez.  But it’s pretty deep.”  He lifted horrified eyes to James.  “If that nutter had actually succeeded in running you through…”

James took a deep, shaky breath.  “I think you and your little flower pot just saved my life, Richard,” he said.  The man on the cobblestones groaned softly.  “I suppose we’d better call an ambulance.”

“Oh, the cut isn’t that bad,” Jeremy said bravely.  “I probably won’t lose any function at all.”

“Not for you, you pillock!” James hissed.  “For Mr. Zorro here.” His two co-presenters gaped at him openly.  James clutched his knees even more tightly.  “I know, I know,” he said tiredly.  “An ambulance means police, and police mean reporters.  And the last thing any of us need is the publicity of being involved in another assault.  But…think about it, gentlemen.  _He_ attacked _us_.  All we have to do is tell the truth.  And believe me, we’ll have a much better chance of coming across as the good guys if we don’t leave the man to bleed to death alone.”

“Uh…” Richard sounded oddly hesitant.  “I’m still not sure that’s such a good idea, James.”

“What?  Why not?”

“It’s just…”  Richard shot a helpless look at Jeremy.  “He was really acting like he knew you, James.  All that stuff about ‘our ways’ and that.”

“Oh, for…” James rolled his eyes.  “I never saw him before in my life.  All right?” 

Apparently, it wasn’t.  Jeremy and Richard both squirmed in a very uncomfortable way.  James’s mouth dropped open.  “What,” he said in disbelief.  “You think he was…some kind of ex- _boyfriend?”_

“Well, I don’t know!” Richard said defensively.  “I mean, just because you were the first bloke either Jeremy or I ever slept with doesn’t mean that we were the first for you.  In fact, I know for sure we weren’t.  And this guy here really was acting like he knew you.  So maybe…” He gestured at Zorro helplessly.  “So maybe you and he have a history you didn’t want to tell us about, back at the opera.  That’s okay, James.  We all have stuff in our past we’d rather keep private. Just…Jeremy and I really do need to know about it now.  So we can figure out what to say before he wakes up and starts talking to the press.  Okay?”

“What he said,” Jeremy agreed, pointing at Richard. 

James silently counted to ten.  It really was touching, he supposed, that his beloveds were so willing to protect him from his unseemly past.  But his gratitude over this was rather cancelled out by the insulting fact that they could so easily believe he had such a past in the first place.  “Right,” he said finally, when he’d gotten control of his anger.  “Hard as it may be for you two muppets to believe…given that I’ve spent the last few years having sex with _you_ …I really do have some taste when it comes to men.  And Opera Cloak’s not it.  Tonight really was the first time I ever laid eyes on him.”  He shook his head despairingly.  “Now.  An ambulance, please?  Sometime tonight? Before the man actually, you know, dies?  And the three of us are convicted of manslaughter and spend the rest of our days in an Italian prison?”

Richard and Jeremy still hesitated, consulting each other by eye, for what James thought was an insultingly long space of time.  But eventually Jeremy nodded.  “Right, I’ll make the call,” he said.  “Emergency services first.  Then Andy.  He’ll want to get in contact with our lawyers right away.”  He held up his phone, frowned.  “Fuck.  No signal.  James?”

“Oh, for…”

James stood up, began rummaging through his pockets in search of his own phone.  Just as his fingers touched the plastic case, though, Richard spoke up querulously.  “Um.  Gents?  Don’t dial those phones just yet.”

“It’ll be okay, Richard,” Jeremy said comfortingly.  “No Italian prisons for you.  You were defending us, we’ll make that clear.  Why, flower pot versus naked blade…it’s epic stuff.  You’ll probably be hailed as a hero, my lad.”

“Er, no,” Richard said.  “I mean…yes, that would be fine, if we really had to explain all this to the police.  But I’m not so sure we will.  Or should.”  He held up his own phone, letting the light spill across Mr. Opera Cloak’s face.  “Look.”

James looked.  And saw a strange sort of blue light, completely independent from the phone’s, dancing across Opera Cloak’s forehead.  It flickered like lightning, bridging the bloody gash there.  A second later, the wound closed up of its own accord, leaving clean, smooth skin behind.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Jeremy breathed.  They watched, stunned, as the stranger groaned again and shifted, half rolling over on the cobblestones.  More light flickered up and down his body, seeming to circle around his left pants pocket before it disappeared.  Jeremy stared.  “Oi. What’s that bulge in his pocket?”

“Jeremy!” James breathed, shocked.  Of all the moments in the world for a bad “he’s just really glad to see me” joke, this one wasn’t it.  But Richard had also seen whatever had caught Jeremy’s eye.  He leaned forward, delving his hands into Opera Cloak’s pocket.  A second later he sat back, holding something that shimmered in the dim light. 

It was a clear quartz crystal.  “Um, is it just me,” Richard said, “Or does this look a lot like your good-luck piece, James?”

“I—“ James began, and stopped.  He didn’t know what to say.

Opera Cloak’s groaning grew in volume.  He seemed perfectly whole and well now, and only a few moments away from full consciousness.  The odd blue lights gave one final flicker, earthing with a little hissing sound near Jeremy’s feet.  Jeremy gulped and slipped his phone back into his pocket.  “I think,” he said quietly, “that we should get the hell out of here.”

For once, neither James nor Richard argued with him.

***

They moved with remarkable swiftness, not pausing until they reached the hotel…using Opera Cloak’s directions, an irony that didn’t escape James.  When they did finally reach their suite, Jeremy carefully locked and chained the door.  “All right,” he said as he did.  “I desperately want a drink.  I imagine that both of you do, too.  But before we blow the production budget for this episode raiding the mini-bar, I think there’s a few questions that need to be answered.  While our heads are still somewhat clear.”  He turned to James, his face firm but compassionate.  “James.  I’m just going to ask this one more time, and then I’ll drop the matter forever.  You claimed Mr. Opera Cloak was a complete stranger to you.  Are you sticking by that?”

James bit down on his lip.  “Yes,” he said.  “I know how it looks, Jeremy.  But it’s really true.”  He laughed hollowly.  “I really haven’t joined a club for medieval sword enthusiasts who act out kinky rape fantasies in my spare time.  Trust me, you would know.”

“Would we?”

“Of course you would, you pillock.  I don’t _have_ any spare time that doesn’t involved the two of you, not anymore.”  James dropped his head.  “Or any fantasies, either.”

“It’s the same for us, mate,” Richard said quietly.  “But you have to admit…even by our standards?  Tonight was a little weird.”  He shook his head.  “If Zorro didn’t know you…and I believe he didn’t, James, I really do… what the hell was all that ‘little one’ crap about?  And why did he have a pet rock that looked exactly like yours?”

“I don’t know,” James said wretchedly.  “I’d like to say it was just a coincidence.  Quartz is the most common mineral on earth, after all, and it’s not unusual for people to carry the crystals for luck.  But I think…” He sighed.  “Richard.  You still have Zorro’s crystal, right?  Can I see it?”

Solemnly, Richard handed it over.  James hefted the sparkling rock unhappily in his hand.  He’d only gotten a quick glance at it in the street.  But while he didn’t know the stranger’s crystal, he definitely knew his own.  His fingers had long since memorized every point and plane, including the rough, somewhat jagged edge where the crystal had once been broken from its original matrix.  And James was an engine restorer, used to looking at three dimensional objects and figuring out how they fit together.  Feeling resigned, James put the new crystal down on the hotel coffee table.  Then he took his own from his pocket and, after a moment of fiddling, aligned it with the first.

They fit together perfectly.

Richard’s eyes went comically wide.  “Holy crap,” he said.  “They’re mates.  That’s unbelieve…”  And then his eyes went wider still.  “James!  Look!”

The crystals were _glowing_.

It wasn’t the same blue light that had crackled over Opera Cloak’s skin.  This was gentler, paler in color…or at least it started out that way.  Two tiny fairy lights deep within each crystal’s heart quickly grew, until they exploded with a flash that had all three men shouting and lifting their hands to shield their eyes.  When their vision recovered, the light had gone.  But the two crystals were no longer two crystals. 

They were one.  Fused together as completely as if they’d never been separated.

They didn’t stay together.  After a brief moment, the strange light flared again, and there was a gentle tinkling sound as the newly separated fragments fell onto the table.  But there was absolutely no question that for a few heartbeats, they had been one.  “James,” Jeremy said, sounding rather strangled.  “Forgive me if I’m wrong, here.  You know that geology has never been my strong point. But that’s not exactly a normal thing for a couple of rocks to do.  Or is it?”

“No,” James agreed, voice choked.  “No, Jeremy, it certainly is not.” 

Tentatively, he touched a finger to one of the crystals.  When it neither shattered nor exploded nor did any of the things he was half fearing, he picked the smaller one up and once again fitted to the larger.  There was no glow this time—no fusing.  But the pieces still fit together perfectly, like pieces of a jigsaw.

Jeremy cleared his throat.  “I think,” he said, “that it’s time you told us exactly where you picked up that little trinket, James.  You’ve been carrying it around for a few months now, right?”

“Since we started travelling for the new show,” Richard put in.  “It lived with Roland before that. Roland, James’s pet houseplant,” Richard explained when Jeremy looked baffled.  “You know.  That leafy green monster that’s been slowly eating James’s kitchen.  I’m not sure where James got it before that, though.”

“I found it in a box of old wax recordings,” James said.  “Recordings that, er…recordings that had belonged to Ben.” 

“Ben?  Ben Adamson?”  Richard said.  “Why on earth would Ben Adamson have had a pet rock that was the perfect mate for Zorro’s?”

“I don’t know,” James said wretchedly.  “I honestly don’t know, Richard.  But…look.  There’s a few things I discovered about Ben, after that night Amanda burgled my shed.  I never told either of you because…well, because it didn’t seem like it was my secret to tell.  But now…”  And, taking a deep breath, he told them about the recording he’d discovered of Ben’s voice, as well as and the photo he’d found of Ben from the 1920’s. And his suspicions about Ben’s true age.

By the time he finished, Richard was staring at him as if he’d grown another head, and Jeremy’s face had gone an alarming shade of purple.  The big presenter got to his feet and paced over to the wall, staring into the drywall as he clenched and un-clenched his fists, taking deep breaths as he clearly worked hard to calm himself.  James and Richard exchanged worried glances.  “Jeremy,” James said awkwardly.  “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Jeremy said, though his tightly strained voice proved instantly that that wasn’t true.  He touched his forehead tensely to the wall.  “I’m just wondering why, given that you already knew all this about your dear friend Ben, why a theoretically intelligent person like yourself ever decided to keep the man’s bloody glowing rock _in your damn houseplant._ And then to start carrying it with you.”

“It wasn’t glowing then, Jez!  I never saw it do anything out of the ordinary before tonight!”

Jeremy made a low strangled sound.  “That’s not what I…” he began, then stopped and started again, still speaking into the plaster.  “James.  Whatever else Adamson may or may not be, we know for sure that he had something in his possession that someone else wanted very badly.  Badly enough to kidnap both him and Richie for.  Badly enough to _kill_ for _.”_ He finally turned his head away from the wall at James incredulously.  “ _Are you seriously telling me that it never once occurred to you that this crystal might be that very thing?”_

James stared.  Then looked down at the crystals, so innocently balanced in his palm.  “It was just a rock,” he said dully.

“I think we have to say it’s a bit more than that now, mate,” Richard said quietly.  “But…” He looked up at Jeremy.  “Do you really think this is what Amanda was looking for that night, Jez?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Jeremy countered.  “She was searching for something small, small enough that she thought it could have been hidden in that phonograph.  And now that we’ve seen what it can do when it’s put together with another one…”  He waved a hand at James.  “It might be some kind of new information storage device, like a super high-tech flash drive.  Who knows what secrets could be on it?  Maybe it tells how men besides Richard Hammond can stop aging forever the second they turn thirty.  Or maybe it is the secret, all by itself.  Maybe if we knew how to use it, all three of us could live for an entire century, too.”  He frowned.  “Most people would definitely consider that to be something worth killing for.”

“Yeah, but,” Richard argued.  “Don’t you think Adamson would have come back and gotten it at some point if it really was that precious?”

“Not necessarily,” Jeremy countered, eyeing James closely.  “Adamson was a clever bloke, by all accounts.  Maybe he just figured that the safest place one earth to hide it was someplace that’d already been thoroughly searched.”

James had no idea what to say to that.  Fortunately, he didn’t have to.  Because someone chose that moment to knock on the door. 

It was, James would think later, a surprisingly polite knock, given just how utterly it was about to change his life.  Polite, short, and quiet.  But with the charged atmosphere already in the room, it was enough to make all three men jump like frightened schoolboys.  “It’s much too late for housekeeping,” James said in a hush.

“Mr. Opera Cloak…he seemed to know what hotel we were staying at,” Richards said hesitantly.  “You don’t think…”

“Right.”  Jeremy got up, straightening his shirt with a purposeful little tug.  “I’ll just go look through the peephole.  Richard, you get your phone out, get ready to dial the police.”  He took a few steps towards the door, then halted.  “Um.  James…”

“Yes?”

“Maybe I’ve seen too many bad horror films.  But it seems to me that I remember quite a few poor bastards getting stabbed with a sword through a door when they were stupid enough to stand next to it.  Do you think…”  He gestured at the peephole helplessly.

“Well, I’m not getting stabbed through the door, either!” James said testily.  Almost subconsciously, he tucked the crystals back into his pocket for safe keeping.  “Richard…”

“Oi, I’m not doing it either!” Richard waved his phone defensively.  “I’m on call-the-cops duty, remember?  I’m the one who will get an ambulance here after you two idiots get stabbed.”

“But you’re shorter,” Jeremy argued.  “If Opera Cloak aims for your head, he’ll miss.”

“Nuh-uh,” Richard answered.  “Not happening.  No way.”  He stood up, too, started backing away toward one of the bedrooms…and was interrupted by another knock.  This time it was accompanied by a gentle feminine voice.  “Gentlemen?”  the voice said clearly.  “It’s Kate, Kate Sutherland from Amazon.  Remember me?  We met a few weeks ago in Seacouver, at the Grand Tour launch party.”  She hesitated for a second, then spoke more quietly.  “Look,” she said.  “If you three have had the night I think you’ve had, I completely understand why you don’t want to open this door.  But I really think you should let me in.  Trust me, I can help.”

Another few seconds passed…and then Richard, wearing an oh-fuck-it face, tossed his phone to James and went to the door.  He stood on his tiptoes and peered through the peephole.  “It’s a woman,” he announced. 

“Is she alone?”  Jeremy demanded. 

“Seems that way.”  Richard peered closer.  “She’s very good looking…oh!  It’s that lady vice president we met back in the States.  You remember, James.  The one with the really impressive…er, knowledge of vintage motorcycles?”

“I remember,” James said.

“So do I,” Jeremy said darkly.  James almost snorted.  Of all the moments for Jeremy to be jealous…But whatever irrationalities were battling in Jeremy’s heart, he chose not to let them get in the way.  He nodded at Richard.  “Better let her in.”

Richard unchained and opened the door.  Kate Sutherland swept in, wearing the sort of expensive, ultra-figure flattering business suit James had previously only ever seen worn on TV, never by actual women in real life.  She nodded at Richard and Jeremy politely.  “Close the door please, Richard.  We don’t have much time,” she said.  A bit startled, Richard did so.  Kate instantly crossed the room to James, eyes locked on his face.   “Thank God you’re all right, James.  I was worried for you,” she said.  “Now.  What did you do with the body?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Body?” James squeaked, in an embarrassingly unmanful way.

Kate nodded matter-of-factly.  “Thadeus Kroissant’s,” she said.  “I’ve been reviewing the rough footage you guys have been sending back to Seacouver, and he was in the background of several of the frames.  Looks like he’s been hunting you for weeks, James.  I flew out as soon as I realized.  I thought I’d be too late, when I landed in Florence an hour ago and learned that you three had ditched your security for the night—and I couldn’t get through to your phones.  But I see I needn’t have worried.”  She gave James a look of open admiration.  “I have to hand it to you, James.  Kroissant was a toad in every way—but he was damn, damn good with a sword.  You must be a brilliant fighter, to have taken his head so easily. I’d love to spar with you sometime.  But first things first.”  She rubbed her hands together briskly.  “I know just how tricky corpse disposal can be when you’re in a strange city.  And the last thing any of us needs is for one of the Grand Tour stars to get arrested for murder.  So.  Where did you leave Thaddeus’s body?”

Pin-drop silence reigned.  After several moments Richard stepped forward.  “Erm, James didn’t kill anyone,” he said bravely.  “I was the one who hit that madman over the head with the flowerpot.  So I guess if anyone is going to be arrested, it will be me.  But he was alive when we left him.  All three of us will swear to that.” 

Jeremy snorted.  “Not just alive, Richard.  Actually getting better by the second.”

“Yeah.”  Richard shivered.  “I don’t expect you to believe this, Kate, but…there was this weird blue lightning, sort of…knitting him back together.  One minute the bloke was bleeding, the next he wasn’t.  I never saw anything like it…”

Kate froze in place.  “You don’t know, then,” she said.  “You really don’t know.”  She spun on James.  “ _How the hell doesn’t he know_?”

“How the hell don’t we know _what_?” Jeremy demanded.

Kate ignored him.  “Jay-ames.”  She stretched the name out into two exasperated syllables. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not generally a big fan of letting mortals in on the secret, either.  But the three of you…you’ve been living in each other’s pockets for years.  You’re practically legendary for the way you all stick together.  Why, everyone in the business says negotiating with you is more like dealing with one person who happens to have three bodies than three individuals.  And even if, for some stupid reason, you did want to keep it to yourself, these guys are a special case.  The lives you lead, especially when you travel…your risks are their risks, James.  It’s only fair that they know what they’re up against.”  She glared at James fiercely.  “So why haven’t you ever told them that you’re Immortal?”

James suddenly felt his knees wobble alarmingly.  He sat down on one of the hotel chairs with a thump.  “Immortal?” he repeated.

Kate’s glare grew intensely in wattage.  Then, all of a sudden, all her facial features went slack.  “You didn’t know, either,” she said.  “That means…that means you must be _new._ Oh, hell.  Bloody, bloody hell.”  She sank down onto a chair of her own.  “All right,” she said weakly.  “I have just one question for you, James.  How long ago did you die?”

“Die???”

Kate sighed.  She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, settling herself more comfortably into her chair.  “Yes, die,” she said matter-of-factly.  “Richard, could you please chain and bolt the door?  And Jeremy, would you mind pouring me a drink?  Actually, you’d better get one for everyone.  We have a lot of talking to do.”

***

Half an hour later, the mini-bar seriously depleted, Jeremy got up and started pacing restlessly up and down the room.  “All right,” he said severely.  “You’ve been talking for a while now, Kate. Let me see if I can summarize the main points.”  He stared counting them off on his big, orangutan-ish hands.  “According to you, there’s a bunch of people walking around this world with the potential to live forever.  They call themselves Immortal, and for good reason: they never get sick, and have a nearly endless capacity for healing themselves from fatal injury.  They look just like everyone else, so much so that they don’t even know what they are themselves until they have some kind of fatal accident, and it doesn’t take.  But after this accident, they suddenly stop aging, and the other Immortals can all mysteriously tell when they are near.  Which is why you say this Mr. Kroissant latched onto James…”

“He sensed his Presence,” Kate said.  She pronounced the word so that the capital P was obvious.  “Yes, Jeremy.  Every Immortal can tell when other Immortals are near—it’s like a bell ringing inside our minds.  It has to be in person, though. We can’t tell just by looking at a photo, or watching someone on TV.  That’s why I didn’t know about James until I met him at the launch party.  But then, it was obvious.”

“Then how did you know this breakfast-food man was…God, I can barely stand to say the word out loud, it’s so preposterous…Immortal, too?”  Richard demanded.  “You only saw him on film.”

Kate made a face.  “Unfortunately, Thaddeus and I have a history,” she said.  “We even crossed swords once, although the Challenge was interrupted before either of us could win.  I knew immediately who he was.  And that he meant to Challenge James.”

“Ah, yes,” Jeremy said.  “The Challenges.  I knew I’d left something out.”  He poured a few fingers of scotch into a glass, downed it in one toss.  “Even though all of you have been given what some just might say is the greatest gift imaginable—the ability to live until the universe itself collapses, the chance to actually see how the great story ends…you don’t.  No, you’d rather spend your time _fighting_ each other.  Because the thing that _lets_ you live forever can be taken by force, simply by…Christ, Richard, you’re right, I can barely stand to say something so preposterous out loud, either…cutting off each other’s heads.” He shuddered.  “And even though none of you actually need this thing—you could all live forever perfectly well without taking anyone else’s, after all—you all kill each other for it anyway.  To the point that every single one of you carries a sword with you everywhere, just on the off chance that you might run across another Immortal whose head you can slice and dice.  From which I am forced to deduce that what happened to James tonight wasn’t a one-time thing.  From now on, he’ll be facing whackos with pointy weapons everywhere he goes.”  Jeremy stared at Kate bleakly.  “Have I left anything out?”

“We call it the Quickening,” Kate said quietly.  “The thing that keeps us alive and heals us when we’re injured, the thing we take when we cut off another Immortal’s head.  And the Game isn’t quite as pointless as it seems, Jeremy.  Every time we win a Challenge, every time we take another Immortal’s power into our own, we grow stronger.  Better able to survive the _next_ Challenge.  There’s…there’s supposed to be something waiting, for the last Immortal standing at the end.”  Her eyes went oddly wistful.  “We call it the Prize…”

“And what exactly is that?”

Kate slumped backward, wistfulness disappearing as suddenly as it came.  “Nobody knows,” she admitted.  “But whatever it is…we all want it.  The fighting is in our blood, Jeremy.  For an Immortal, taking heads is pure instinct.  An instinct that’s very hard to resist.”  She sighed.  “Even just sitting here now, talking like civilized people, I’m very aware that James’s Quickening is humming away right over there, just waiting to be taken.  I’m sure if he’s honest, James will say the same thing about me.”

Jeremy looked at James doubtfully. “James?”

“Well, I have to say, it all sounds like a very convenient lie to me,” James said bluntly.  “The sort of lie designed to let people who are determined to kill each other keep right on doing it without feeling guilty.  But I’m not sure I’m equipped to judge.  This Quickening thing?  I don’t have one.”

“James,” Kate said chidingly.  “Of course you do.  I can hear it.  Any Immortal could.”

“I believe you hear something,” James said levelly.  “But _I_ can’t hear you.  I couldn’t hear…Kroissant, was it?...either.  Or any of the other extremely odd people who have been so fascinated with me lately.”  He shook his head.  “And I haven’t died.  Or developed magical blue fairy sparkles that instantly heal me when I get hurt. Trust me.  I think I would have noticed.”

“Not necessarily,” Kate insisted.  “It’s rare…but sometimes an Immortal does go through his first death without noticing.  Have you had any kind of accident lately, James?  Fallen down the stairs? Slipped in the shower and hit your head very hard, maybe?”

“No, nothing.”

“Maybe you rolled over onto him and suffocated him with all your blubber in your sleep, mate,” Richard said to Jeremy in a whisper. 

Jeremy hushed him quickly, and James shot him a “what the hell are you thinking?” glare.  But if Kate heard, she didn’t appear to assign the remark any importance.  She just sighed.  “Right.  Time for an experiment, then,” she said.  And suddenly there was a sword in her hand. 

All three men swore and scrambled back.  Richard seemed particularly alarmed.  “Where did you…how did you…”

“Oh, learning how to carry a sword discretely is something every Immortal learns,” Kate said matter-of-factly.  “I admit, it used to be much easier, back when ladies wore long skirts and big foofy cloaks.  But even with modern clothes, it’s not impossible.  James’s first Teacher will show him how.”  She laid the sword across her own lap, blade up.  “There’s only one real way to prove that everything I’ve said is true.  Richard?  Be a love and get me a towel from the bar, will you?  I doubt the hotel would appreciate me getting blood all over the carpet.” With one quick, decisive movement, she slashed her arm open on the upturned blade.

“Bloody _hell--_!“ 

Richard sprinted for the asked-for towel.  He ran with it to Kate, attempted to press the terry cloth to her wound.  But Kate waved him off.  She did take the towel from him, using it to catch the blood before it could drip off her elbow onto the floor, but she left the actual wound alone.  She just held up her arm, making sure all of them could see how deeply she’d cut. 

James was sure he could see severed muscle and even a hint of bone, and thought he was about to be sick.  But a second later, the same blue lightning they’d witnessed healing Opera Cloak’s forehead sparked across the wound, making it as if the cut had never been.  “Holy…” Richard said reverently, and stopped.  He couldn’t seem to find any other words.

“Possibly.” Kate regarded her arm philosophically.  “There certainly was a time when I thought my Immortality was holy, a gift directly from God.  Then, for a few centuries more, I believed it was a curse.  Nowadays, I genuinely have no idea.”  She carefully wiped the remaining blood off her skin and the sword, then proffered the blade to James.  “Your turn, James.”

“I, err…”  James faltered, eyes wide.  “You want me to slash open my arm, too?”

“Oh, a fingertip will do,” Kate answered blithely.  “I cut my arm because I’ve learned that if I make this sort of demonstration extra vivid, it tends to stop a lot of needless argument.  But you needn’t be so dramatic, James.  Just give yourself a small cut, enough to draw a little blood.”  Her eyes settled on James sympathetically.  “Sorry.  I know it’s hard.  But it’s the only way that you’ll know the truth.”

James hesitated.  But she was right, it was the only way he’d know.  And seeing Kate produce the sword so casually…not to mention watching her heal…had suddenly made the whole crazy mess seem a lot more probable than it had.  He took a deep breath, and rubbed his forefinger along the blade.

He now understood why Jeremy had hurt himself so easily on Kroissant’s sword.  Kate’s was _sharp_.  It only took a light touch to slice through the skin on his finger, bringing dark red blood to the surface.  He held it up.  Jeremy and Richard both crowded in around him, Jeremy even taking his wrist so he could get a better view.  They waited.  And waited.

And waited some more.

Eventually, Richard spoke.  “Um,” he said.  “Shouldn’t this be going a bit faster?”

“It’s not going at all,” Kate said in consternation.  “That’s not…it can’t be…” She grabbed a fresh towel and wiped at James’s finger, clearing the accumulated blood away.  More welled up instantly, from James’s decidedly non-healing cut.  “This is impossible,” Kate said flatly.  “Absolutely impossible.”

“Clearly, it isn’t.”  Jeremy had plainly had enough.  Gently-but-firmly, he put his hands on Kate’s arms, pushing her away from James.  Then he got in between them, using every inch of his imposing height to look down on her and intimidate. “Look, miss.  I don’t know how, or why, but clearly you’ve made some kind of terrible mistake.  You AND all the other sword-wielding idiots out there.  James isn’t a part of your oh-so-special secret club, after all.”

“But I can hear him!”  Kate exclaimed.  “You don’t understand, Jeremy.  The sound of a full Immortal’s Presence can’t be faked. At least, I’ve never run across a single instance of it, not once in all my years.  And I’ve been around for a very, very long time.” 

“Obviously not long enough,” Jeremy said coldly.  “I really think it’s time for you to leave, Kate.”

“But…”

“James.”  Richard’s voice was quiet.  Still, it managed to stop Kate and Jeremy’s budding argument in its tracks.  “You don’t think this could have anything to do with the crystals, do you?” 

James stared at him.  So did Kate and Jeremy. Richard just shrugged shyly.  “I know, I know, it sounds completely mental,” he said.  “But…if Kate is right, and you really are supposed to have this Quickening thingy…maybe the crystals are blocking it somehow?  There must have been some reason why Opera Cloak was carrying one too, right?”

“Crystals?”  Kate said sharply.  “What crystals?”

James hesitated.  Something deep inside was telling him that he didn’t want to let the crystals out of his hands.  He didn’t even want to let this very odd woman lay eyes on them at all.  But both of James’s beloveds were looking at James expectantly.  Reluctantly, he reached into his pocket and drew the two fragments out, holding them up to the light.

Kate stopped breathing.

Well, all right.  Probably she didn’t, in all actuality.  The rules of Immortality with a capital I might still be very strange to James, but he was still pretty sure even Kate couldn’t actually stop taking in oxygen without consequence, even if those consequences turned out to be temporary.  But Kate certainly did an excellent impression.  Long seconds ticked by, during which her chest had no discernable rise and fall, and the only sound James could hear was the gentle whir of the hotel air conditioning.  At last, though, Kate spoke, in a voice that could have belonged to the dead, it was so scratchy and strained.  “Rebecca’s crystals,” she breathed.  “ _Where on earth did you find them?”_

“I, er…” It took James less than the fraction of a section to make up his mind not to betray Ben. If this woman was right, all Immortals hunted all other Immortals.  He was not going to put her on Ben’s trail.  “I found the first one about two years ago, in an old box.  Full of bits and bobs for an old phonograph I was restoring.”

“That’s…” For a second James though Kate was going to protest that this was impossible, yet again, but she chose not to.  “And the second?”

“In Thaddeus Kroissant’s pocket.  Just like Richard said.”

She appeared to stop breathing again for a second.  “That’s bad.  That’s very, very bad.”

“You know what these rocks are, then?”  Jeremy said belligerently.

“I…think I do.  But it doesn’t make any sense.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t make sense?”  Richard sounded almost as fed up as Jeremy.  “Are they hurting James, or not?”

She shook her head.  “No,” she said.  “The pieces have no power, not by themselves.  Not like this.  If anything, they should be making James’s Quickening ever so slightly stronger.  Whatever’s stopping James from healing…the crystals aren’t  it.”

Jeremy glared at her suspiciously.  “Then why did you suddenly look like you’ve acquired a very bad case of food poisoning, Kate?”

“Because they shouldn’t be here at all,” Kate snapped.  “All the pieces were supposed to have been lost over twenty years ago.  But if they’ve been recovered somehow, and a man like Thaddeus has started hunting them down…”  She shuddered, and for a moment James was startled to see what looked like absolute terror in her eyes.  Then it passed, replaced with a cold, brutally business-like mask that unnerved him even more.  “I don’t suppose you’d consider turning them over to me for safe keeping.”

He snatched his still bleeding hand away.  “Absolutely not.”

Both Richard and Jeremy were startled by James’s vehemence.  Kate just nodded.  “No,” she said.  “I honestly didn’t expect you to.  I’d kill before I’d let them out of my hands, too.”  She grabbed another towel off the bar and began cleaning her sword.  “Right then,” she said brusquely.  “Clearly, we have more than one mystery to solve.  I’m going to have to make some calls.  Find out if anyone knows what can take away an Immortal’s ability to heal.”

“I’m not Immortal, Kate.”

Her eyes were piercing.  “No, James.  You are.  You’re going to have to come to terms with that.”  She sighed.  “But I’ll admit your inability to heal has me flummoxed. Normally, I’d find you a Teacher, start your sword training right away…take you on myself, if no one else could.  After all, I have a lot invested in The Grand Tour. I fully expect it to make my Amazon stock options worth enough to buy a nice private Caribbean island, in a few years’ time.  It’s in my own self-interest, keeping you alive.”  Her smile, disturbingly predacious, flashed. And then disappeared almost immediately.  “But not being able to heal is…a problem.  You won’t be able to train anywhere near as intensely as you need.  And in an actual Challenge?  An opponent could cripple you with just one cut.  So.”  Her face grew more severe.  “You have to be more careful, James.  No more abandoning security for boys’ nights out on the town, do you hear me?  No more going _anywhere_ alone.  In fact…I think I’ll have a word with my superiors, make sure you have discrete body guards accompanying you everywhere, and make sure all the security on location is tripled.  You three are major international stars, after all.  We need to protect you.”

“We’re not children, Kate,” Richard said quietly. 

She frowned, looking him over in a considering way.  “No,” she agreed at last.  “You’re three of the most brilliant, stubborn men to ever bend this sorry planet to their will.  But when it comes to the world of Immortality, trust me...you three are babes in arms.  That’s another thing you’re all just going to have to come to terms with.”  She held the sword up to the light, inspected it critically for a moment, and then gave a satisfied nod.  “Right,” she said.  “I must be off.  Don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything you need.  Just…don’t call me tonight.”  She spun the sword around in her hand, tucked it into her suit jacket.  “Tonight, I’ll be busy.”

James wasn’t sure what was more disturbing.  The way the neat, well-fitting, decidedly girly jacket had swallowed up the sword as thoroughly as if it had never been? Or the way Kate had handled the magic trick so matter-of-factly, as if she’d done it so many times she no longer saw any magic it in at all?  Then her last words truly sank in, and that was by far the most disturbing thing of all.  “Kate,” he said roughly.  “You’re not just planning to spend the evening on the phone.  You’re going to go after Thaddeus.  Aren’t you.”

She patted his cheek condescendingly.  “Good night, James,” she said.  “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything. Lock the door behind me.”  And she was gone.

Leaving three staring, silent men behind her.

***

Kate left a message on James’s mobile the next day with the alarming…or was it comforting?...news that James no longer needed to worry about Thadeus Kroissant.  He’d been ‘taken care of’, whatever the hell that meant.  Kate did not elaborate.  But she did say that, on the strength of the footage showing Thaddeus outright stalking the Grand Tour presenters …as well as the fact that the man was wanted in several countries on a variety of unpleasant charges…her bosses had easily agreed to foot the bill for more security. “So,” Kate finished.  “There’s no excuse for going anywhere without protection now, James.  I know it’s a pain.  But it’s necessary.  At least until we can figure out how to get your healing abilities back.”

Even if James had been inclined to argue with her then, it didn’t take him long to change his mind.  Over the next few weeks of filming, they had more than one close call with what Jeremy, in his typical gallows-humor fashion, started calling “The SWW” (“Sword-wielding wackjobs”).  Marrakesh was the worst.  They managed to spin that as a confrontation with some overly-zealous paparazzi—the press and their fans ate up the story of their security forcibly marching the offenders directly to the airport, where they were instantly deported for not having the necessary work permits.  Still, James and Jeremy and Richard all knew the truth.  And while James still believed that someone, somewhere had made a galactic-level cock up—he _wasn’t_ Immortal, as every new paper cut and his constant need for stronger reading glasses continually proved—there could be no doubt that lots of other people _believed_ he was.  And this knowledge ate at them all.

By the time they’d wrapped up work on the first six episode’s worth of films and were ready to begin filming in front of an audience again, James was something of a nervous wreck. And he wasn’t the only one. 

***

The night before they were to film their premiere episode in the tent, James woke up to find Jeremy thrashing and moaning in his sleep.  It was the first nightmare James had ever seen Jeremy experience; Jeremy tended not to sleep at all when he was worried, rather than have bad dreams.  James gave him a few moments to see if it would quiet on its own, then gently shook him awake.  The moment Jeremy fully realized where he was, he slumped limply back into the pillow, dazed.  “Bloody hell,” he said.  “That was…that was fucking awful.”

“Tell me.”

“I dreamed it was tomorrow, and we were all on the stage outside the tent,” Jeremy said.  “I’d just finished introducing you, James.  And when I looked down, I saw that _every single person in the audience was carrying a sword.”_ He shuddered.  **“** It was like something out of some bloody post-apocalyptic ninja movie.”

“Yeah, well, that was better than my dream,” Richard said from Jeremy’s other side.  James hadn’t even known he was awake until he spoke.  “I dreamed we were all filming in the tent, and everything was going really well…until some SWW suddenly rushed the stage and beheaded James.  Right in the middle of Conversation Street _._ ” Richard made a loud “blech” noise, as if trying to rid his nasal track of something very disgusting.  “Talk about your Celebrity Brain Crash.”

More silence, this one rather pained…until suddenly James snorted, and Jeremy started chuckling.  And just like that they were all laughing hard, so hard the bed shook.  For a moment it seemed like the hilarity might be starting to die away, but then James gasped out “So does this mean I won’t be going on, then?” and they were off again, the luxuriant hotel mattress squeaking alarmingly beneath them.  But eventually even that wave of humor faded. Jeremy wrapped an arm around both Richard and James and pulled them in tight.  “It’s not going to happen,” he said decisively.  “It can’t happen, James.”

“I know,” James answered.  “Andy took me aside last week, filled me in on all the new ‘anti-stalker’ security measures Amazon’s put in place.  Thanks to Kate, our audience is now better screened than it’s ever been.  Everyone was put through a discrete background check before they got their tickets.  And they’ll all have to go through a pat-down and a bank of metal detectors before they can actually get into the tent.” 

“I know,” Jeremy replied.  “But that’s not really what I meant.”  He released Richard and laboriously rolled onto his side, facing James in the darkened room.  There was just enough light from the hotel clock and the various LEDs on their phones and camera equipment that James could see how serious he was.  “The three of us, James…we’re more than a match for anything.  We’ve proven that, time and time again.”  His hand found James’s under the blankets.  “This is no different.  I mean it.”

James didn’t know what to say to that, so he just used Jeremy’s hand to pull the larger man closer, attempting to communicate via kiss all he felt but couldn’t find words for.  And then Richard got up and padded around to James’s side, gently urging them to all shift over so they could make a sandwich with James in the middle.  None of them quite got the amount of sleep they should have, the night before such a big day.  But what sleep they did get eventually was sweet, untroubled by dreams.

James thought it was more than a fair enough trade.

And Jeremy was right.  The three of them were more than match for anything, including SWWs who insisted on turning James’s life into a Hitchcock-esque case of mistaken identity.  By the time they’d finished filming their first segment in the tent, it was obvious.  They still had it, the magic.  And by the time they’d reached the end, with their very first “on that terrible disappointment…” all three of them were flying.  It really was true.  No power on earth was going to stop them from doing this, this odd and wonderful thing they did so much better than anyone else on the planet.  Not age, not the BBC, not even allegedly Immortal morons with King Arthur complexes.  All was well.  All _would_ be well. 

James was on top of the world.

And he stayed there for quite some time, through all the triumphant Amazon pre-screening reviews, through all the preparations for the second episode in South Africa.  In the tent in Johannesburg, when James looked down from the table and saw Ben Adamson sitting in the front row of the audience with Amanda at his side, he still didn’t come crashing down.  Ben was looking back at him with so much pride and plain, simple affection that James couldn’t help but buoyed by it. 

But he did know, deep in his heart, that the world he’d felt so much the master of was about to change irrevocably, once again.


	5. Chapter 5

With all the increased security, actually talking to someone James wanted to talk to from the audience proved difficult.  It took more insistent repetitions of “yes, they really are my friends, I’d like to have a PA fetch them to the hotel now, please” then James would have thought possible for this simple task to be accomplished.  Jeremy going instantly into full-on suspicious-bastard mode didn’t help much, either.  The moment he’d spotted Ben and Amanda, he’d whispered to James: “should I have them escorted out?”  And looked like he’d be more than willing to do the job single handed.

James thought it was a great tribute to Jeremy’s professionalism that, once James had shaken his head and whispered “No, I want to see them.  Besides, they’d never have gotten tickets if Kate thought they meant any harm”, the show did not grind to a halt.  Jeremy had gone on without skipping a beat.  But once the filming was done, he’d insisted on having their security pat the two Immortals down again—twice. First, when they walked into the hotel lobby escorted by the PAs.  And then a second time, when they actually entered the presenter’s suite. 

Amanda endured this second pat-down with flirtatious insouciance, wiggling under the guard’s hands in a way that managed to make both Jeremy and Richard flush uncomfortably, and caused even the stony-faced, ultra-professional body guard to gulp. Ben didn’t wiggle. But his gaze never once strayed from James’s face…which was almost worse, at least as far as Jeremy’s jealousy was concerned.  When the guards had declared their guests to be weapons-free for a second time and had departed, leaving the five of them alone, Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest.  “What, no swords?” he said belligerently.  “According to Kate, carrying one at all times is practically a religion for you people.  I’d have thought you were surgically attached.”

“Oh, we’re allowed to detach them on special occasions,” Amanda said brightly.  “In this case, our dear friend Kate—“  she gave the word ‘friend’ an interesting twist that made James wonder just how friendly the two women actually were--  “informed us that there was no way we’d get within half a mile of James if we were armed.  So we both dispensed with our usual weapons.”

“Yeah?” Richard said belligerently.  “Well, what about the _un_ usual ones, then?”  His eyes swept up and down Amanda’s body in a way that had nothing to do with flirtation.  “Seems to me that if you people can hide a sword in a tailored suit jacket, you might have all kinds of things hidden in other places, too.”

Amanda opened her mouth, probably to say something biting, or else so laden with sexual innuendo that it might have turned Richard’s cheeks permanently red.  But Ben spoke up before she could.  “No Immortal of any age is ever truly ‘weaponless’, Richard,” he said.  “We’ve all been taught, painfully, that we have to be prepared for the worst at all times.  So even if you stripped us both naked and tied our hands, we’d still be a threat, far more dangerous than a terrorist with a suicide bomb strapped to his chest.  That’s just the way we are.  The way we’ve been forced to be.”  Richard gulped audibly.  “But this is an unusual occasion,” Ben finished softly.  “And I know this may be hard to believe, given what Kate says your experience of our kind has been so far, but…Amanda and I really aren’t after James’s head.  We’d much rather he stayed alive and kept making television for years to come.”

“Good heavens, yes,” Amanda interrupted.  She threw James a saucy smile.  “Especially _The Reassembler._ Ben played me the first season on the plane, and I was absolutely enchanted, James.  I could watch you install tiny little screws for hours _._  Those _hands…”_

“Amanda,” Ben said reprovingly, and Amanda subsided, though not before throwing James a discomfiting wink.  “Anyway,” Ben said.  “We really do have James’s best interests at heart.  So I’m going to have to ask you and Jeremy to trust us, Richard.  More than you really have reason to.”  He shrugged his shoulders, suddenly looking much more like an awkward college student than a former BBC executive.  “And the first thing I’m going to have to ask is that you let me take James into that bedroom there for a private chat.  There are several things he and I need to discuss.  Alone.”

Jeremy and Richard didn’t like it.  Jeremy especially didn’t like it.  But Amanda chose that moment to sit down, crossing her legs in a way that drew instant attention to their shapely length.  “What a good idea,” she said brightly.  “You and James go have a good chat, Ben.  I’ll stay here and entertain Messrs. Clarkson and Hammond.”  She turned the full force of her smile onto James’s co-presenters.  “After all,” she said, “James isn’t the only one who has been suddenly thrown headlong into our world.  I’m sure you two have lots of questions to ask about Immortality, as well.”  She patted the seat next to her coyly.  “I promise, I’ll answer anything you ask…except to tell you exactly how old I am.  A lady stops wanting to admit her true age after it reaches four digits.”

“Four?” Richard squeaked as he sat down, as drawn by Amanda’s seductive pat as a fly to honey.  Jeremy hesitated a little longer, but after meeting James’s eyes for a long, pregnant moment, he gave a nod and sat down on Richard’s other side.  Which just left James and Ben.  James took a deep breath, then jerked his head questioningly towards one of the bedroom doors.  Ben nodded, and they left quietly together. 

The ridiculously luxuriant Amazon accommodations still hadn’t abated.  James led Ben through the suite to the cavernous bedroom they were all using as a temporary office.  Ben’s eyes flickered around the large room, clearly taking in the mess of papers and camera equipment spread out over the bed, and James experienced a moment of worry.  There were reasons why they normally never let visitors this far into their private space.  It was far, far too obvious that only one of their suite’s bedrooms was being used. 

But then, the fact that all three men slept in one bed surely wouldn’t come as a surprise to Ben.  Suddenly aware that this was the first time he’d been alone with Ben since their awkward morning-after, James hesitated with his hand on the door, desperately trying to think of something to say.  Fortunately, the universe provided, in the kittenish peal of laughter that rang out just as he closed the door.  “Amanda seems different,” he said.  “I don’t remember her being quite so….so….”

“Coquettish?” Ben supplied.  James nodded.  “She isn’t, not usually,” Ben said.  “Or…no, I take that back.  Amanda is always _very_ aware of the impact her sexuality has on people, and she’s never afraid to turn it to her own advantage.  But usually she’s a touch more subtle.  I suspect that today’s exhibition is just her way of making things easier for you and me.”

“Easier?”

“Amanda knew your two cohorts out there wouldn’t feel comfortable letting us talk alone.  This way they’re not only distracted by her many charms, but by making it seem that she’s far more eager to jump your bones than I am, they can relax a little.  Feel good that they’re protecting your virtue from the greater threat.”

James snorted.  “If Jeremy and Richard think that Amanda’s the greater threat, then they really haven’t been paying attention,” he said ruefully.  “But she certainly can be distracting.  I’ll have to thank her later, if making things easier really was her intent.”  He pulled on the door handle again, making sure the door was solidly closed behind him.  Then he looked down, digging his foot awkwardly into the highly polished wooden floor.  “So.  You watched the Reassembler on the plane.”

“I did indeed.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought it was brilliant, James.  The best thing you’ve ever done.”  Ben took a few slow, hesitant steps toward him.  “It’s the most _you_ you’ve ever let yourself be on camera.”

James smiled a small, crooked smile.  “And that’s a good thing?”

“Very.”

“Well.”  James laughed, a little uncomfortably.  “I’m glad you think so.  I mean…I’m glad you liked it.  Seeing as it was you I was talking to in my head, the entire time I was filming.”  Ben looked startled.  James shrugged sheepishly.  “After all, the whole series was pretty much your idea.  You were the one who first made me think people might be interested in watching me putting things together.  So whenever I got stuck for something to say, I’d just imagine that you were there, helping me fix whatever outlandish twentieth century artifact you’d most recently unearthed.  It made it all feel easy.”  Another awkward laugh.  “I think the whole show was really my way of saying thank you, Ben.  For that.  And for…well, you know.  For seeing me.  And for seeing Jeremy, and making sure that we finally saw each other.  Richard, too.”  He gestured helplessly around the room.  “I’m honestly not sure that Top Gear would have survived that bloody awful year, if you hadn’t done that.  But you did.  And that changed everything.”

Ben took another slow step forward.  “Have you been happy, James?” 

“Incredibly,” James answered, without thought or hesitation.  “It’s been like trying to ride a roller coaster without a safety bar, sometimes, but it’s been worth it.  Every single moment has been worth it. At least, you know, it was.”  He faltered, and when he spoke again, he was disturbed by just how much he sounded like a three-year-old who was trying desperately not to cry.  “Right until people started coming out of nowhere, wanting to cut off my head…” 

Ben stepped closer still, hand raising to lightly touch James’s face.  The gesture wasn’t sexual, not really, although James knew it could easily have become so: Ben, in his simple worn jeans and tight grey t-shirt, was even more beautiful than James had let himself remember, and the attraction that had always thrummed between them was just as strong as ever.  But for the moment it was everything but, and while the touch was profoundly intimate, that’s all it was.  “James,” Ben said quietly.  “I’m so sorry.  My god.  I am so, so sorry.”  And he pressed his forehead against James’s.

For a very brief moment James just let himself savor it: the warmth, the comfort, the understanding.  The understanding most of all.  With the exception of Kate, who had not exactly had much by way of comfort to offer, he and Jeremy and Richard had been alone with all the craziness this for months.  It felt wonderful, for a moment, not to be so alone; to share the whole insane, horrible situation with someone who _knew._ And then he remembered.  Yes, of course Ben knew.  Because he _had_ known, all along.  And yet, he’d chosen to say nothing.  James broke the embrace and backed away, the cold bitterness of betrayal heavy in his chest.  "You knew,” he said.

“That you had the potential to become Immortal?  To one day be like me?”  Ben asked.  James nodded.  “Yes,” Ben agreed softly.  “I knew the moment we first met at the old Top Gear track.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” James demanded.  “Good god, Ben.  Do you have any idea what these last few months have been like?  If I’d known ahead of time…if I’d just had some fucking _clue…”_

“Would you have believed me if I had?”

The justice of this took James aback.  “No.  No, probably not,” he admitted.  “But you could have _made_ me believe, Ben.  Started out by cutting your hand and letting me watch you heal, just like Kate did.  Then played me that recording of you and Ernest Pike…”

“You found that?”

“Eventually,” James answered.  “I wouldn’t have stayed disbelieving for long, Ben.  I’d already half-figured out you were much older than you looked on my own.”  He laughed hollowly.  “I’d still have found the Game hard to swallow, of course.  But even if I didn’t believe you, I still would have _listened_.  I’d have actually known what was going on, when the nutters started pulling swords on me.  And not just me, either.  In Marrakesh, it was Richard the bastards went after first, threatening to kilI him if I didn’t agree to fight.  I don’t think…” James’s voice broke.  He went to the edge of the bed and sat down on it, too upset to trust his legs to keep him standing any longer. “I don’t think I can forgive you for that, Ben.  For not giving any of us warning.”

“James.”  Ben’s voice was strained.  “For god’s sake, James.  I know it’s been hard.  I know you feel betrayed that I didn’t let you know what to expect.  But if anything…these last few months should have made it very clear exactly why I didn’t.”  He met James’s incredulous eyes.  “You’ve gotten a taste of what Immortality is really like now,” Ben explained helplessly.  “You’ve seen how the Game never leaves us alone.  As long as you were Pre-Immortal and living in ignorance, you were safe from it; it couldn’t touch you.  But once you found out…”

“Yes?  Once I found out?”

“Then you’d have a choice to make,” Ben finished gravely.  “A truly terrible choice, James, the kind no human being should ever have to make.  Believe me, I’ve seen other Pre-Immortals try.  And it never ends well.  Because really, how can any sane person even begin to approach making such a decision?  And expect to _stay_ sane in the process?”  Ben started pacing restlessly around the room, ticking off the options with agitated fingers.  “On the one hand, you can kill yourself, choose to go through your First Death immediately. It’s a tempting option, on the face of it.  You’d stop aging at once, and you’d never be sick again.  But then you’d be part of the Game…and new Immortals are easy prey, James.  Very few survive even five years after their First Deaths.  The odds are that you’d actually live longer as a mortal.”  Ben raised another finger.  “But if you choose not to go through your First Death… if you attempt to live and die as an ordinary mortal…there’s always the chance that fickle Fate will crash your plane or run you over with a bus.  And then the Game will find you anyway.  Only you’ll be a few years older, when it does.  A little further into the aging process, with a little less stamina, a little less hand-eye coordination.  A little less chance of becoming a swordsman good enough to keep your head.”  Ben looked at James pleadingly.  “Do you see what I mean about it being an impossible decision?”

“So you just decided you’d take away any chance I had of making it for myself,” James said bitterly.  “To make it for me, essentially.  Without so much as asking my opinion.”

Ben’s eyes went…brittle, was the only word James could find for it.  Facially, his expression didn’t change at all.  But James had the strong feeling that his calm had become a mask, one that could crack away at any moment.  “No.”

“No?”

“No.  That’s not what I’d decided at all.” 

Ben turned on his heel, walking toward the high, tall window at the very end of the room.  There was an astonishing view of the city outside, James knew.  But he also knew that Ben wasn’t interested in it.  He just wanted something to look at that wasn’t James.  “There’s no such thing as an Immortal handbook, James,” Ben said softly.  “At least, I’ve never found one.  And I’ve been looking for it for longer than you can possibly imagine. But if such a thing did exist, ‘don’t tell Pre-Immortals what could be ahead of them’ would probably be rule number five.  Maybe even number three or two.”  Ben pressed his head wearily to the glass.  “Oh, we’ve all broken it, those of us who have survived to any age.  I think every Immortal past his first century fantasizes about finding a Pre-Immortal we can do better by then our own Teachers did by us.  Someone we could tell the truth to, and help through the early years of Immortality the way we wish someone had once helped us.  Someone to spend the centuries with.”  He turned his head back to James, wearing a sickly smile.  “It’s an incredible temptation, James.  And we’ve all succumbed to it... at least, I know I have.  So has Amanda.  Richie’s still too young to have made that particular mistake yet, but his time will come, I’m sure.  It never, ever ends well.” 

“Why not?”

“Because the youngsters always end up coming to hate us in the end,” Ben said bluntly.  “Becoming Immortal is NOT all rainbows and puppy dogs, James.  It’s more like constant thunderstorms and snarling pit bulls, actually.  But it’s next to impossible make a Pre-Immortal believe that.  After all, who in their right mind would listen?”   He gestured at the bustling city spreading out below them.  “In comparison, every mortal is living on death row.  It’s human nature to focus on the reprieve-from-death part of the Immortality contract, and to ignore the small print.  But believe me.  That small print is everything.  And when the truth does eventually sink in, a newly born Immortal will start looking around for someone to blame.  Generally, the person they lash out at is whoever told them about Immortality in the first place.  The one who changed the way they saw their lives forever.” 

“That’s…” 

“Human,” Ben said succinctly.  “Very, very human.  And you know what?  The youngsters aren’t really wrong.”  He looked at James sadly.  “Knowing the truth about one’s Pre-Immortality changes everything, James.  As I said, you have to make a decision no human being is prepared for.  It’s an untenable position, and it’s only natural to resent the person who puts you in it.  So…”  Ben sighed, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets.  “So, those of us with enough of a soul left to actually give a damn generally come to a compromise.  When we stumble across a Pre-Immortal, we don’t tell them the truth…but we do keep them close.  Keep an eye on them, so if the day ever comes when they do become Immortal we can step in, begin their training at once.  That way we know we’ve done everything we can to keep them safe, but the actual _décision_ _horrible_ of how or if to trigger their Immortality isn’t theirs to make.  And it isn’t ours, either.  It’s left in the hands of God, if you believe in one.  Or Fate.  Or simply random chance.” 

James studied him through narrowed eyes.  “You make it sound like you’ve done this before.”

“More than once,”  Ben agreed.  “Although, truth be told? For the last several centuries, I couldn’t even be bothered to do the ‘keep them close’ part.  It seemed to me that if I was going to leave the how and when of a Pre-Immortal’s First Death in Fate’s oh-so pragmatic hands, I might as well leave it up to Fate to find that new Immortal a Teacher, too.  A Teacher who _wasn’t_ me.”

He’d have had to have had the sensitivity of a brick to miss the wounded quality in Ben’s voice.  “Why?”

“Because Teaching is a painful business, James.  It’s horrible, watching a student you’ve loved and nurtured lose his head in his very first fight.  It’s even worse to have to kill him yourself, just because he’s finally figured out that the best way to survive the Game long term is to take his Teacher’s head.  If I ran across a Pre-Immortal and there happened to be a trustworthy Immortal nearby, I might alert him or her to the Pre-Immortal’s presence.  But that’s the most I ever did.  Teaching was not for me.  I’d been burned too many times.  I was convinced I never wanted to get involved with a young Immortal in any way, ever again.  And then….” Ben finally turned away from the window.  “And then I met you.”

James stared.  Ben’s hands were still shoved deeply in his pockets, his shoulders shrugged up in an undeniable posture of vulnerable self-protection.  But his gaze was direct and steady, hiding nothing at all…and what James saw there could not be mistaken.  “Me?” he repeated.

“Yes, James. Then I met you.”

***

Unless you counted the occasional gleefully shouted “We love you, James!” from fans--which James never, ever did --James May had not been on the receiving end of many declarations of love in his time.  Jeremy had made James deduce his feelings, rather than declaring them.  And with Richard? The total conversation had consisted of Jeremy putting his arm around James one day when the three of them had been alone, saying “So, Hammond.  May and I have decided to give this homosexualist thing a go.  You want in?”, and Richard looking shocked for a moment before he breathed “Oh, thank god.  Yes!” and launched himself at them for a very awkward, very messy first kiss.  And while both those moments had been very special, things James fully intended to cherish for the rest of his life, they hadn’t exactly made him a master in the art of receiving romantic confessions. 

Nonetheless, that seemed to be exactly what was happening now. 

Oh, Ben didn’t make a move toward him.  He simply kept his place by the window across the room.  But even so, his meaning was unmistakable…in his posture, in his voice, in the eyes that suddenly seemed far warier and more vulnerable than James had ever seen.   “You…really did have feelings for me,” James said helplessly.

“That’s one way to put it,” Ben said.  His lips curved slightly in clear self-mockery.  “It would be more accurate to say I was head-over-heels in love with you, I think.”

“You never said!”

“No.  Not to you,” Ben said, a touch ruefully.  “But to everyone else I did.”  He caught James’s look of horror, raised his hands in hasty reassurance.  “No, no, don’t look at me like that.  Of course I never said anything at work, James.  I knew you were closeted, and probably always would be.  The last thing I would ever have done was expose you to the notorious BBC gossip ring.  But with my real friends?  That small handful of fellow Immortals I actually trust?”  He laughed hollowly.  “Richie accused me of turning into a teenage girl, I talked about you so often.  He even threatened to get me a subscription to Tiger Beat.  And Amanda promised she’d fly to London and take my head if I didn’t stop calling her about you in the middle of the night.”

“You told Amanda you were in love with me?” This was news even more shocking than the idea of Ben being in love with him at all.  “ _Amanda_?”

“Believe me, I appreciate the irony,” Ben said, with more of that wry ruefulness James now remembered was his trademark.  “But Amanda has far more depth than you know.  You’ve only seen her top layers, so far.  She actually gives very good advice, if you can get her to stop flirting long enough to give it.  And she’d been through a similar situation, not that long ago.”

“A similar situation?”

“Falling in love with a Pre-Immortal,” Ben said.  He left the door, sat down heavily on the edge of the bed farthest from James.  “His name was Nick.  They met…well, that doesn’t matter now.  What matters is that Amanda chose not to tell Nick he was Pre-Immortal, for all the reasons I’ve just explained.  She did, however, tell him the truth about her own Immortality and the Game. She even let him witness her taking a few heads, which most of us never do; it’s just such a hard thing for modern Western humans to accept, at least those who have never trained for a battle or fought in a war.  Nick was a cop, though, and he’d killed a few times in the line of duty, which helped him understand. It seemed like he’d really accepted what she was.  They were together for about a year.  And then…”  Ben hesitated.

James frowned.  Whatever Ben was about to say next, he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be good.  “And then?”

“An enemy gave Nick a very toxic, very slow-acting poison.  It wouldn’t have killed him quickly enough to trigger his Immortality…we need to meet quick, violent ends for that.  Nick would just have died and stayed dead, game over, story complete.  And perhaps that’s exactly what Amanda should have let happen. But...”  Ben’s fingers skated over the bedspread restlessly.  “They’d been together almost a year, as I said.  And Amanda was very much in love.  So…she killed him.  And thus made Nick Immortal before he could die.”

“Hmmm.”  James eyed Ben appraisingly.  “Something tells me they didn’t ride off into the sunset together.  Why not?”

“He never forgave her,” Ben said heavily.  “Ostensibly, it was because she had spent the entire year lying to him, never telling him the truth about his own potential Immortality—but of course, it was really far more than that.  By that time Nick had met more Immortals than most Pre-Immortals ever get a chance to, and had come to thoroughly despise both the Game and our kind.  So when he suddenly became one of us...he couldn’t accept that Amanda had been the one to make him into something he hated.  I think he really would have preferred it if she’d let him die.”  Ben sighed.  “He’s doing all right now.  He even eventually managed to find a Teacher, Terence Coventry.  Not exactly the brightest bulb in the Immortal chandelier, but he seems to have done fairly well by Nick.  Last I heard, the kid had two or three heads under his belt, and was using his Immortality to fight the good fight as narcotics cop near the Mexican border.  But he’s never so much as returned one of Amanda’s emails, let alone seen her in person.  She keeps reaching out, every few years or so.  But he keeps turning her down.”  

“Do you think she made the wrong decision?”

“No.”  Ben shook his head.  “No, James.  I think she made the _only_ decision.  She could have watched someone she loved die a hideously painful, lingering, permanent death…or she could have given him a chance at living forever.  So what if the ungrateful bastard never speaks to her again?  He’s alive.  To Amanda, that’s everything.”  Ben drew back slightly on the bed, away from James.  Once again, his shoulders hunched over protectively.  “So.  After several dozen hours of phone conversation, with Amanda’s experience firmly in mind…I finally made a decision about telling you, James.  And not the one you think.”

James’s memory flashed back to that last day they had spent together: the way he’d found Ben sitting like an abandoned kitten on his front step, the box of old recordings clutched in his hands.  The box that had contained his century-old voice, firm proof of who and what he was.  And the crystal.  Not that James really had any idea what the crystal had to do with anything—it was still a mystery, one he was determined to solve before he let Ben out of his sight.  But he knew it was wrapped up with Ben’s Immortality somehow.  And thus was further proof of what he suddenly realized he should have known all along.  “So you were going to tell me,” he said, mouth dry.  “The day we finished the phonograph.  You were actually planning on telling me then.”

“It seemed like the ideal time,” Ben nodded.   “You’re always so happy whenever you finish a restoration project, James.  I thought that happiness might…might help make having your entire world rearranged a little bit easier.  Besides, we’d had so many good talks about the phonograph, its place in history, the way it changed the world.  I thought telling you that I’d bought it new in 1926 and then playing that recording of me and Ernest would be a good way to break the ice.  It would relate my Immortality to something you already knew and were passionate about. Make it a bit less frightening.”  He shrugged.  “I still hadn’t decided whether or not to tell you that you could be Immortal, too.  I wanted to wait until I saw how you reacted to learning the truth about me.  But…I was already pretty sure that you’d eventually come to terms with it.  I knew you had the flexibility of mind, as well as that innate internal kindness that doesn’t let you judge anything negatively on first glance.  And I was hopeful that…well.”  He dug his toe awkwardly into the carpet.  “That after that day I might be in your life in a more…permanent way.  In a position where I could help you navigate all the decisions, and the consequences of those decisions, for many years to come.”

“As…as my lover, you mean.”

“Or just as your very close friend,” Ben said quickly.  “I’m not a _total_ idiot, James.  I knew you wanted me, physically at least, the very first day we met.  But I could also tell that you hadn’t let anyone get close to you that way since you were a kid.  And while I didn’t know all your reasons for that, I knew they must have been compelling.  Too compelling to tamper with lightly.” He met James’s gaze levelly, and James was astonished by the honesty he saw. “I wouldn’t have forced anything on you, James.  I would have been happy to just continue as we were, once you knew the truth about my Immortality.  Believe me.  For an Immortal, sharing that part of his life is far more intimate than most sex can ever be.   But…”  His voice became heavy with self-derision.  “The day I chose to make my big, dramatic revelation turned out to be _that_ day.   And you know what happened to you at work that morning.” 

James nodded painfully, feeling again all the hurt and confusion of that fateful morning.  “Jeremy happened.”

“Exactly.  Jeremy happened,” Ben agreed.  “I should have left when I realized how upset you were, James.  It would have been much better for us both. But…you were so hurt.  So convinced that no one you cared for would ever want you back.  I wanted so badly to prove to you that wasn’t true, James.  I wanted…fuck.”  Ben broke off, running his hands agitatedly over his face.  “If I’m really being honest, I just plain wanted _you_.  And so I took you to bed, thereby committing one of the bigger mistakes I’ve made in recent years.  For which I will always be sorry, James.  Truly.”

James blinked.  “You think I regret that night?” he asked incredulously.  “You think you…what.  That you hurt me, somehow?”

“Didn’t I?”

“I—no.  No, of course you didn’t.” It was hard, putting together all the memories and feelings in his brain.  But James worked at it doggedly, assembling them as laboriously as a very complicated bit of machinery.  “It…sleeping with you wasn’t _right,_ Ben.  It certainly wasn’t meant to happen more than once.  But it wasn’t wrong, either.  It was just…”  He paused, turning a few more pieces about in his mind.  “You said it was the best bad sex you’d had in a long time.”

“I know.”

“You also said…”  Another twist and turn of memory, and another puzzle piece fell into place.  “You also said that you’d failed to give me everything you’d hoped to.”  Ben nodded soberly.  “I’ve always wondered exactly what you meant by that,” James said.  “Was it something to do with your Immortality?”

“No.  It was nothing to do with Immortality at all.”

“Then what?“

“I just…”  Ben’s head sagged toward his chest.  “The concept of romantic love is really a very modern invention, you know.  For most of man’s history, sex was a very pragmatic matter, all about who could provide you with the strongest offspring and/or the most resources in exchange for the pleasure.  A lot of our ancestors would laugh at the idea of being ‘in love’ with their sexual partners at all, let alone being what the kids today call ‘soulmates’.  But…” 

“But?”

“But sometimes, something magic does happen,” Ben finished quietly.  “There’s a…rightness, a blending.  A feeling that you really are one being that the gods have cruelly split into two bodies, just like Plato so fancifully proposed.  I’ve been lucky enough to find it, once or twice. But I never know for sure until I’ve actually taken someone to bed.  There’s something about touching that intimately that just makes it so blinding obvious.  It’s not just physical pleasure anymore.  It’s something more…” He cleared his throat, looking ever so slightly embarrassed.  “Anyway.  That’s what I was hoping to give you, James.  What I was hoping you might give me in return.  But it didn’t work out that way.  Because you’d found your perfect match already.”

“With Jeremy.”

“And Richard.  Yes.” Ben smiled a tiny smile.  “Trust James May to carve his own way even in regard to this.  I’m not sure even Plato allowed for a single being having been split into _three_ bodies.  But that’s certainly what seemed to happen with the three of you.”  He shook his head, half wondering, half rueful.  “And in retrospect?  It should have been obvious to me all along that they belonged to you and you to them.  But I swear to you, James—when we slept together that night, I still hadn’t figured it out.  By the next morning, though, I finally had.  And that meant I had to change my plans.  At least the ones I’d made about telling you about my—our—Immortality.”

“Why?”

“Because of those rainstorms and pit bulls, James.  Because of the pit bulls most of all,” Ben answered.  “Adjusting to the Game isn’t easy for any new Immortal.  But for you it would have been ghastly.  Forgive me, but you were already well into your forties when we met.  And it was fairly obvious even then that athletic endeavors had never been one of your fields of abiding interest.”  James found himself blushing lightly.  “Maybe, with enough time and training, you could have learned to hold your own in Challenge,” Ben continued.  “But you’d have had to quit your job and spent every blessed moment training…and even then, I honestly wouldn’t have laid any money on you if it came down to a fight between you and someone like Richie, who became Immortal at nineteen.  Or Nick, who was thirty, but who had spent his entire mortal lifetime studying various forms of self-defense.  Some skills can’t be learned after maturity, James.  They’re either trained into your muscles and nervous system at a young age or they’re not.  No one becomes a prima ballerina when they first start studying ballet at 45.  And no one becomes a world class swordsman, either.” 

“But you already knew that,” James said testily.  “For god’s sake, Ben.  Surely actually seeing me naked wasn’t that much of a shock.  Or did you think my pot belly was just a pillow I affected for the camera?”  Ben snorted, smiled softly and shook his head.  “No,” James finished, slightly mollified.  “You already must have considered all that.  So it wasn’t my stunning lack of physical fitness that changed your mind about telling me.”

“Of course not.  I’m just trying to explain what I was thinking, James,” Ben said.  “And what I was thinking was this: new Immortals only have two options.  They can train like hell and do their best to become the One.  Or they can retreat, from both the Game and the world.”  He looked at James beseechingly.  “Traditionally, those who retreat become monks or priests, live out their Immortal lives on Holy Ground.  I knew that wouldn’t work for you.  But there are other ways to do it, if you’re willing to live far away from other people, and only risk going into a city or town when it’s absolutely necessary to get supplies.  I--I own a cabin in British Columbia that’s on Holy Ground, right by a hot spring that’s been sacred to the Inuit for millennia.  I thought…I’d hoped you and I could go there, one day.  I could have spent my days reading, you could have spent yours tinkering with airplanes or motorcycles or whatever else you fancied, and we…we could have been happy.”  He shot James a sharp look.  “Don’t laugh.  It should have been obvious all along that I was pipe-dreaming.  But I honestly didn’t know until That Night.”

James nodded slowly.  “Because you found out I was already in love with Jeremy.”

“No,” Ben denied.  “I’m not _that_ noble, James.  If it had just been you harboring a case of unrequited love for a coworker, I would have proceeded as planned.  No, it was _Jeremy_ who really changed my mind, when he came charging into your bedroom like the total lunatic he is.  Because it was then so obvious that he was equally in love with you.”  Ben rolled his eyes.  “Even then, it took me…oh, at least a year or two to give up on you completely.  I was watching you, you know.  From a distance, yes, but I’m good at that.  If I’d seen even a hint that you were as miserable as you’d been before That Night, I’d have stepped right back in, Jeremy and Richard both be damned.  But instead…” 

“Instead?”

“You were so happy, James,” Ben finished.  “Everyone noticed it, even though most people never figured out just what they were seeing.   And the way you and Jeremy and Richard all meshed after that just made show get better and better, that much more successful.  Which was the final nail in my coffin.”

“Why?”

“Because you got much, much too famous,” Ben answered simply.  “When we first met there was still a chance you could have escaped into obscurity.  It would have been difficult, and there would always have been at least a little danger that some diehard petrol head somewhere would have eventually recognized Captain Slow.  But once you and Clarkson and Hammond all figured out what you really meant to each other…”  Another helpless shrug.  “Your popularity exploded, James.  You weren’t just hosting a car show anymore.  You were part of bonafide global phenomenon, your face loved and recognized around the world.  And I knew.  If Top Gear’s James May became Immortal then, the word would have spread through the Immortal community like wildfire.  You’d have been hunted everywhere you went.”  He swallowed roughly.  “I wanted to spare you that.” 

“But you didn’t spare me,” James said hotly.  “That’s exactly what happened.  The word is out, somehow.  And I’m being hunted at every turn.”

“I know,” Ben said wretchedly.  “But can you really blame me for thinking that you dying a sudden, violent death was highly unlikely?  You’re careful, James, methodical. You don’t take risks driving on the show, and you always keep to yourself when you aren’t filming.  I honestly thought the chances were good that you could live out your entire existence as a mortal.  And the small chance that you might not…fuck, James.  It seemed so small, compared to the absolute certainty of ruining your peace of mind.  And utterly destroying what you had the potential to build…what you _did_ build…with Jeremy and Richard.”  He shrugged his shoulders, bent his head humbly.  “I made the best choice I could, James.  If it was wrong, I’m sorry.”

James stayed quiet.

There was no question in his mind that Ben really had meant to do the right thing.  James was as certain of that as he was of the fact that Richard dyed his hair and that Jeremy was getting more farsighted with every passing week.  But had it been the right thing?  How could he judge?  As Ben said, these were decisions no human mind had been built to make.  “So,” James said gruffly.  “Here we are.”

“Yes.  Here we are,” Ben agreed.  “James…how did it happen?  How did you die, I mean?  There weren’t any reports of any near-fatal accidents in the news.”

“That’s because there wasn’t one.  I don’t remember dying, Ben.  I’m still not a hundred percent convinced I did,” James answered.  “Kate says I must just be blotting it out because of the trauma, or else I didn’t realize it when it happened…that I slipped and broke my neck in the shower, maybe, or cracked my head falling down the stairs.  But I’ve thought and thought, and I honestly can’t come up with anything.  Neither can Jeremy or Richard.”  He fingered the outside of his trouser pocket, feeling the reassuring shape of the crystals through the fabric.  “All I know is, one day I started carrying your crystal around…the one you left in the box of cylinders, I mean.  And the next thing I knew, people with swords were coming out of the woodwork to Challenge me.” 

“That’s…” Ben looked very confused.  “That’s not right, James.  I—“  He shook his head, as if he didn’t know what to say.  It didn’t stop him from looking at James, though, and suddenly speaking urgently.  “James.  The crystals.  You still have them, don’t you?  Kate said you refused to give them to her, but I wasn’t sure…”

“They never leave my pocket.  I even keep them on me at night.  For some reason I just can’t seem to let them out of my hands.”  Ben looked more puzzled still. James frowned.  “Ben.  What are they?  I mean, it’s pretty obvious they aren’t just ordinary quartz.”

“No,” Ben said levelly.  “They aren’t. And I’m not surprised that you’re finding it difficult to let them out of your hands.  Historically, Immortals have always been instinctively attracted to them, kept them close even when they had no idea of their true potential. But…”  His frown intensified.  “James.  Would you agree to a small experiment?  I won’t ask you to give the crystals to me.  That’s rather too much to ask any Immortal to do.  But if you could just put them down someplace…say, on that dresser by the wall over there…and move away?  I won’t try to take them from you, honest I won’t.  But I need to see if…”  He trailed off, looked sheepish.  “Well.  I might not see anything at all.  But if I’m right…”

James hesitated.  He really, really didn’t want to let the crystals go.  Which was quite worrying, now that he came to think about it.  Why on earth should he feel so strongly about two little bits of sparkly rock, anyway?  Had he somehow gotten… _addicted…_ to the crystal’s presence?  Suddenly queasy, James dug deeply into his pocket, withdrew the crystals, and slapped them down on the table before he could change his mind.  Then he slowly backed away across the room.

“Fuck,” Ben breathed.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Ben?”  James was really alarmed now.  “What’s going on?”

He didn’t get an answer.  The bedroom door burst open, revealing a very panicked Amanda, followed closely by Jeremy and Richard.    “METHOS!” she shrieked.  “What did you—“  She stopped dead in her tracks, abruptly enough that both Jeremy and Richard jostled into her.  Oddly enough, Amanda didn’t seem to notice this…and when people were jostled by Jeremy, they tended to stay jostled for hours to come.  She just absorbed the shock like a sailor riding the waves on a ship.  “James,” she breathed.  “You’re all right.”  She turned to Ben.  “I thought…when I couldn’t hear his Presence…”

“Oh yes,” Ben said, bitingly sarcastic.  “ _Of course_ your first thought would be that I’d taken James’s head.  Right here, in a hotel full of mortals, built from old dry wood just waiting to go up in flames from the Quickening.  With James’s mortal partners in the very next room.” His hands clenched subtly.  “Thanks, Amanda.  It’s good to know that you’ve embraced MacLeod’s opinions of my moral character so whole-heartedly.”

Amanda flushed a brilliant shade of rosy pink.  “It’s not…I didn’t know what to think,” she stuttered.  “One second James’s Presence was humming away, strong as any other young Immortal’s.  The next it just vanished, and all I could hear was you.  What was I—“

“Not vanished,” Ben interrupted.  “Just diminished.  Try walking a little closer to him.  I think you’ll hear it then.”

Amanda frowned.  She took another few steps into the room, completely focused on James.  On the fourth step her mouth dropped open.  “Oh,” she said, sounding lost.  “Oh, _fuck_.”  She turned her astonished eyes on Ben.  “How?”

“I don’t know for sure.  But I’m pretty sure the crystals are responsible.”

“Oh.”  Amanda squeezed her eyes shut.  She didn’t appear to have anything else to say.

This was not true of Jeremy.  He and Richard had gotten stuck trying to get through the door together behind Amanda, a bit of slapstick nonsense that would have highly entertained James at any other time.  Now Jeremy finally made it through, squeezing past the loudly protesting Richard with a little _pop._ He came to rest just a few feet behind Amanda, hands on his hips, glaring.  “Just what is going on here?” he demanded. “What’s this about James being…diminished?”

“Not James,” Ben corrected.  “Just his Quickening.  Neither Amanda nor I can hear it, now.  Or at least not the way we could when he still had the crystals on his person. I’m pretty sure they were amplifying his Presence somehow.”  His odd hazel eyes lit on James, and for the first time James really got a sense of the weight of years Ben must carry on his shoulders, of the true age behind his young face.  “I think they were making it seem like he was a fully-fledged Immortal when he really wasn’t.”

James’s heart gave a strange sideways beat.  “Then…that’s why I can’t heal,” he said, breath coming more quickly as the puzzle pieces aligned within his mind.  “That’s why I’m still aging.  I--”

“You’re still just Pre-Immortal, James.”  Ben shook his head softly, and James thought he’d never seen happiness and regret so evenly mixed on anyone’s features.  “You still can die.”


	6. Chapter 6

“So,” Jeremy said sharply.  “Just what are these crystals, then?  And how are they affecting James?”

They were back in the sitting room of the hotel suite.  This was linguistically very appropriate, as the crystals were now safely sitting on the bar, and all the people were sitting, too.   Given the amount of confusion and outright aggression in the room—especially coming from Jeremy--James supposed he should be grateful that they’d all managed to sit down in a more or less civilized fashion.  But he would have been even more grateful if his seat had been more comfortable.  He was wedged in between Richard and Jeremy on an antique couch that, presumably, had once comfortably held three British colonists…back when the average height for said colonists was around five foot five.  Still.  Jeremy had sat down and pulled James after him with a very insistent tug, and Richard had quickly piled in on James’s other side.  Apparently Amanda’s sudden terrified rush to the bedroom had scared them enough to make them decide they weren’t going to let James out of their sight.  Or even beyond their arm’s reach. 

Ben and Amada had taken the love seat opposite, and they looked so much like a happily married couple it was unreal—especially since Amanda had dropped every trace of her former coquetry, and was now sitting with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap in a way James could only term “prim”.  The change was quite alarming, especially when he saw the sad, unhappy looks she kept discretely shooting his way.  Why?  Was still being mortal truly such a terrible thing?  It was, after all, what James had been all his life.  And if the crystals no longer made him seem Immortal when he wasn’t, the ceaseless hounding from the SWWs would cease.  What was there to regret in that? 

Then he saw the equally sad, unhappy glances she gave Ben, and remembered what Ben had said.  About the way pre-Immortals eventually came to hate whoever told them what they were.  And also about the impossible choices that lay ahead of any Pre-Immortal who was warned of his possible fate.  Which suddenly made him wonder: what would he, James, choose? Would he die deliberately, lose everything, but gain the chance of living forever?  Or would he keep living the life he knew, knowing the ground could drop out from under him at any moment and he’d have SWWs coming at him from every corner?

Well.  Fuck.

Ben, meanwhile, was answering Jeremy’s question.  He spoke in a calm, well-reasoned, scholarly tone that James suspected was as false as the birthdate on his driver’s license.  “That’s the problem, the crystals shouldn’t be affecting James at all,” Ben said reasonably.  “As they are, the fragments have next to no power.  But…” He turned to Amanda.  “Amanda.  In your experience, has a crystal ever been carried by a Pre-Immortal before?  I can’t think of a single instance, not in any of the Chronicles.”

“No.  I don’t think it’s ever happened.”  Amanda gave a lady-like little shrug.  “Rebecca never gave any of the pieces to her students before they’d taken their first heads.  Maybe…” Her eyes flickered back to James.  “Maybe this is the reason why.”

“Maybe,” Ben agreed.  “Rebecca certainly knew more about the crystals than anyone.  I wish she was still around to ask.”

“I wish that every day.”

“I know, minx.  Believe me. I still miss her, too.”  Ben cleared his throat, returning his attention to the three men on the couch…which was just as well, as Jeremy was about to boil over from sheer frustration.  “Anyway,” Ben said firmly.  “What James has in his possession are just two fragments of a much bigger stone.  And as fragments, the crystals are all but useless.   But if you put them together…” He sighed.  “I don’t suppose any of you gentlemen has ever heard of the Methuselah Stone?”

Next to James, half in James’s lap because of the limited seating area, Richard blinked confusedly.  “Methuselah?” he said.  “As in, that extremely long-lived old gent from the Old Testament?”  Both Ben and Amanda nodded.  Richard frowned.  “Wait, he wasn’t one of _you,_ was he?”

“No,” Amanda answered.  “He wasn’t.  That’s rather the point.” 

“You see, when fully assembled, the Methuselah stone is one of the most powerful objects known to man,” Ben explained.  “It can make any mortal who carries it live forever, _without_ having to face any of the perils of the Game.  And in the hands of an Immortal…well, it’s said that the Immortal who carries it will never lose a Challenge.  That the Methuselah Stone practically guarantees its holder the Prize.”  He cast a side-long glance at Amanda.  “We’re very lucky that the last person to possess the Stone in its entirety didn’t want to win the Prize.  She broke the Stone into six component pieces.  And gave one piece each to six of her students as a parting gift, when they finished their training with her.”

“Why should she do that?” Jeremy demanded.  “Why give up her chance at winning this wretched Game of yours?”

“Rebecca never told me,” Amanda answered.  “And she lost her head more than twenty-five years ago now, so I never can know, not for sure.  But…Rebecca was an unusual woman, as wise as she was kind.  She really didn’t want to be the One, not when that meant that all her Immortal friends and students would have to lose their heads at her hand.  I think she thought that by giving a piece to each of us, we’d keep them safe.  Away from any Immortal who just wanted to win the Prize.”

“There had to be more to it than that,” James interrupted.  “Because even fragmented, the crystals do have some power.  Or they wouldn’t have affected me.”

“Some,” Ben agreed.  “It’s the barest fraction of the power of the entire Stone.  But yes.  Mortals who possess one of the fragments do tend to be a little healthier, live a little longer.  It’s not a big difference.  Just possessing a piece of the stone can’t instantly heal a broken bone, for instance.  Or cure a fatal illness.”  Ben looked extremely wistful.  “I know.  Back in the 1990’s, I tried….”

“You tried using a fragment to heal Alexa?” Amanda asked curiously.  Ben nodded tightly.  “But wait,” Amanda said.  “I offered to give you the crystal I still had when you left for Geneva, for luck.  You turned me down.”   She frowned thunderously, then suddenly straightened up and smacked Ben squarely in the arm.  “You little stinker!  You’d already had the river searched, hadn’t you?  You already had a crystal back in your possession!” She settled back into her seat, fussing like a hen settling ruffled feathers.  “No wonder you didn’t need mine.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ben smiled, but there was something both very cold and very forbidding in it.  “We didn’t know each other quite so well back then, little vixen,” he said calmly.  “And it wouldn’t have taken much to make you come after my head.  In fact, you’d already tried for it once that week.  Remember?”

“Oh.  Yes.”  Amanda sagged for a second.  “But…”

“Remember our audience, Amanda,” Ben said.  “We’ve gotten too far ahead of our story, I think.”  He reached up to rub the spot Amanda had punched absently.  “James was asking about the power the fragments have.  As I said, the individual crystals aren’t anywhere near as powerful as the entire stone.  But they do have an impact.  A crystal couldn’t heal my mortal wife Alexa when she was dying of cancer…but one did help her live a few weeks longer, and die with much more comfort and peace.  The fragments have a similar effect on Immortals.  They don’t make us invincible.  But…”

“But they do make us a little stronger, and a little faster in a fight,” Amanda interrupted.  “At least, they do in the beginning.  By the time an Immortal’s taken, oh, half a dozen heads or so, we have enough power of our own to cancel out the crystal’s effect.  That’s why I stopped carrying the one Rebecca gave me somewhere around my seventy-fifth birthday, except on special occasions, as a luck charm.  But during those early years, it helped a lot.”  Once again, she turned on Ben, her eyes alight with understanding.  “Ben.  Is that why you gave the crystal to James?  To help him in the Game?”

Ben looked extremely uncomfortable.  “It was in the back of my mind, yes,” he said.  “I knew James was going to have a difficult time. I thought having the crystal might help.  It’s a customary gift from Teacher to Student, too; Rebecca wasn’t the first of us to follow that tradition. I thought…"  He coughed awkwardly.

“You were going to give it to me,” James said with certainty.  “That Night.  After you played me the recording and told me what you really were.”

“That was my plan,” Ben agreed.  His smile was slightly forced.  “When it became obvious that telling you was _not_ the thing to do, I decided to leave the crystal with you anyway.  I thought perhaps you might stumble onto it one day, on your own.  If you did and you were still mortal…well, it would help.  And if you somehow became Immortal without me around to guide you, it would help you then, too.”

“You weren’t scared he’d just chuck it in the bin?” Richard asked.

“Not at all.”  Ben shook his head.  “These crystals…they don’t ‘chuck’, Richard.”

“They really, really don’t,” Amanda agreed.  “Tell them, Ben.”

“It’s just like those old folk tales about the coins the fairy folk make, the ones that are impossible to throw away,” Ben explained.  “If you try to throw one off a cliff, it lands in an eagle’s nest, and the eagle picks it up and flies it back to you.  Toss one into the sea, and the next thing you know it’ll be eaten by a fish, which you’ll catch and serve for dinner.  The crystals work exactly the same way.”

“Bollocks,” Jeremy said.  But he didn’t sound convinced.

“No, he’s right,” Amanda said.  “The crystals all tend to find their way to the nearest Immortal, whoever that may be.  It’s like they _want_ to help someone win the Prize.  I think that’s another reason why Rebecca gave them to her students.  If all the fragments were kept safely locked away by us, they’d be less likely to…to go wandering around on their own.  And to find their way into the wrong hands.”  She sniffed.  “Not that I knew that.  Back in the 1990’s, five of the fragments fell off a bridge right into the middle of the bloody Seine.  I thought they were lost for good.  It wasn’t until just two years ago that this very secretive man here…” She raised her eyebrows at Ben with mock affront… “Told me anything different.  And I don’t think he would have even then, if he hadn’t had a sword to his throat.”

“You held a sword to his throat?”  Richard asked, appalled.

“No, Richard.  Not Amanda. The Immortals who kidnapped me in London, right before Richie’s funeral,” Ben answered.  “They did indeed hold a sword to my throat.  Yes.”  He slumped dispiritedly.  “And I didn’t know for sure _,_ Amanda. Believe me, I was as ignorant as you were for millennia.  It’s just…when I was trying to save Alexa, I found an old manuscript that mentioned the crystals’ seemingly magical propensity for finding their way into Immortal hands.  And just like the sagacious Mr. Clarkson here, I thought it was all bollocks at first.  Fanciful rubbish, the Immortal version of fairy tale.  But…”  He smiled tightly.  “When the crystals spilled into the Seine, I really didn’t have anything to lose.  So I paid a few discrete people to walk the banks of the river for me, keep an eye out for them.  The next morning one washed up on shore, the fragment I eventually left with James.  Sadly…the other five found their way to less trustworthy Immortals.”

“The people you beheaded in Croydon,” Jeremy said.  He seemed very involved in the tale now, and much less bothered by the whole idea of beheading than James really thought he should be.  “I assume they kidnapped you to get their hands on the missing piece.  Only you didn’t have it anymore. James did.”  He frowned.  “How’d they know you’d ever had it at all?”

Ben grimaced.  “That,” he said bitterly, “is a very long story that I have absolutely no intention of telling.  Suffice it to say that it all happened in Paris, and ended up with me killing off my persona there and starting a new life in London.  I thought the threat was over then; I honestly believed that the only Immortal who even suspected I had a crystal had died in Paris before I left.  Otherwise I would never have left it with James.  Not when I knew exactly what lengths other people would go to recover it.”  He looked down at his lap.  “I was wrong, of course.  The person who knew had told his student before he died, who told others, who kept a lookout for me.  It took them more than a decade to find me.  But eventually one of them recognized Richie, and followed him to me.  Assuming he was my student, they ‘killed’ him on the streets and kidnapped him, hoping to trade him to me for the crystal.  When that didn’t work, they abducted me as well.  And they probably would have taken my head, if MacLeod and this coy vixen here--” he shot a fond look at Amanda… “hadn’t staged a thrilling rescue.”

“Why didn’t you just tell them where the crystal was?” Richard asked.  “If it would have saved your life…”

“Because it wouldn’t have saved anything, Richard,” Ben answered.  “They’d have taken my head anyway, the second they had the crystal in their possession.  And probably killed James and any other mortal who happened to be in his house when they went to find it, too.  The best thing I could do for all of us was to keep silent.”

“He didn’t even tell _me,”_ Amanda said.  “Keane…one of the kidnappers, though he rethought his position later…was the one who told me Ben had a crystal in his possession.  I wasted hours tearing Ben’s flat apart, looking for it.  Only then did I get the bright idea of looking for it with you, James.  Ben had never told me he meant to give the crystal to you—but I knew enough about how he felt about you that I guessed he might have.  Hence, my midnight visit to your shed.”  She threw another mock-glare at Ben.  “When we didn’t find it in the phonograph, I was sure I’d guessed wrong.  It never even occurred to me that James might really have had it all along.”

“The best place to hide something is always where everyone has already looked, minx.”

“That’s what I said!”  Jeremy exclaimed. 

He didn’t seem to know whether to be pleased at his sagacity or angry at the situation, and settled on an all-purpose glare thrown Ben’s way.  James couldn’t blame him…he felt a bit like glaring himself.   “So you decided to leave it with me,” he said, and held up his hand when Ben, looking stricken, seemed about to speak.  “No, of course I don’t think you were just using my home as a convenient hiding place, Ben.  I believe you when you said you thought my having it would help me.  God knows, it certainly helped Roland the Houseplant.  He turned into a monster, after I put the crystal in his planter…”

Amanda’s mouth dropped open.  “You—you put your crystal in a _planter_?” she exclaimed.  “A fragment of the most powerful object on earth?”

Richard snorted.  “You’re just lucky he didn’t shove it in a box with one of his toy trains.  Or use it as ballast on one of his rockets.  Or…”

“Richard,” James said severely, and Richard shut up, throwing James an apologetic smile.  James turned back to Ben.  “As I was saying—I believe you thought you were helping me, Ben.  But it didn’t turn out that way.”  He looked at the table where the crystals rested, glimmering softly.  “Instead, the crystals made me appear to be something I’m not, at least not yet.  And that has caused no end of trouble.”

“I know,” Ben said.  “I know, and I’m sorry.  I honestly thought it would affect you the same way it would a genuine mortal, James.  Give your health a slight boost, nothing more.  Maybe keep your vision from blurring and your joints from calcifying as fast as they would have normally.  I’m still not sure I entirely believe…”  He looked thoughtful.  “James?  Would you be up for a few more experiments?  You can say no, of course.  But it would be helpful to know if you start sounding like an Immortal each and every time you pick up one of the crystals.  And if so, just how close you have to be for it to happen.  Do you have to be physically touching it?  Is there anything that can muffle the effect?  Those are the sorts of questions I’d like to have answers for.”

Twenty minutes later, they’d found several of those answers…and several more questions.  The second James touched either of the crystals, Ben and Amanda insisted he started “sounding” like a fully-fledged Immortal to them, though he still couldn’t heal like one (James had to demonstrate this with yet another small cut to his finger before either Immortal would fully believe it.)  James also “sounded Immortal” even if the crystals weren’t touching his skin, but were just somewhere on his person: in his jeans pockets, slipped under the insoles of his shoes (very uncomfortable), or tucked under a knitted cap he borrowed from Richard.  Wrapping the crystals in another layer of cloth like a sock or a handkerchief did nothing to muffle the effect, and neither did sticking one in an empty olive jar from the minibar, or wrapping it in tin foil.  It seemed that as long as the crystal was touching something that was touching James, he was going to sound Immortal, and that was that. 

But there was one exception to this, as they discovered when Ben asked James to put a crystal into Jeremy’s pocket instead.  Suddenly James sounded mortal again, even if he and Jeremy were holding hands…yes, even if they wrapped around each other in a full-body hug, embarrassing as that was to do in front of an audience.  This was true when Richard carried the crystals, too.  “Oh, stop blushing,” Amanda said, when they’d demonstrated this rather conclusively.  “You’re not the first three men I’ve ever seen share a hug, you know.  But I must admit that it all seems very strange.”  She looked curiously at Ben.  “Do you think there’s something about Jeremy and Richard’s mortality that’s somehow blocking the crystal’s powers?”

“I don’t know,” Ben answered.  His expression was the strangest combination of fascinated and exhausted.  “Maybe the crystals are somehow prioritizing who their power goes to, and when they touch a true mortal, they think the mortal has the greatest need.  There’s no way to know for certain.  But the fact that it _is_ happening this way does solve a problem.”

“What problem?”

“The problem of what to do with the crystals.”  Ben’s serious gaze fell over James.  “I’m not going to try to take the crystals from you, James.  It’s plain to see how reluctant you’ve been to let Amanda and me get close to them…” 

This was true.  Something inside James had twitched like a drug addict denied his cocaine every time Ben had asked him to put one of the crystals down.  And that same something had growled like a wild animal defending freshly killed prey every time either Amanda or Ben had come close to the crystals themselves…though, come to think of it, Ben at least had seemed to be aware of this, and had stayed as far from the crystals as was humanly possible in the small room.  Did he know?  Yes, James realized, of course he did.  “For whatever reason, the crystals have chosen to come to you, James,” Ben continued softly.  “But I do think you should stop carrying them personally.  Sounding like an Immortal when you really aren’t one is just asking for trouble.”

“We know,” Jeremy said gruffly.  “We’ve had more than enough experience with that, thank you very much.”  His big hands squeezed James’s shoulders, and his voice became filled with a desperate hope.  “Do you think things can go back to normal if he just stops carrying the damn things?  Will the maniacs with swords stop stalking him then?  Could it really be that simple?”

“I think there’s a very good chance,” Ben answered.  “Without the crystals, James just sounds like a Pre-Immortal, Jeremy.  There _are_ Immortals out there that will kill a Pre-Immortal, wait until he wakes up Immortal, and then take his head…but they are very, very rare.  New Immortals just don’t have any juice in their Quickenings, you see.  There isn’t enough power to be worth all the extra effort.  So I think if James stops carrying the crystals, he’ll be relatively safe again.  All he’ll have to worry about is the usual number of mortal nutcases wanting to get their hands on a celebrity.  And you three have already been dealing with that for years.”  Once again, his gaze fell across James.  “The problem, of course, was what to with the crystals once he put them aside.  The best I could come up with was leaving them in a safety deposit box somewhere…”

“No,” James said reflexively.  And flushed.  Good god, he really was hooked.

“No,” Ben agreed.  “For whatever reason, the crystals and James have…bonded, somehow.  I don’t know what would happen if James tried to leave them behind, but I don’t think it would be good.  But if Jeremy and Richard could each carry one for him…”  Ben looked at James searchingly.  “Would that work, James?  Do you trust them enough?”

It was like every muscle in James’s body…unconsciously tensed into knots, the moment he’d realized that for his own safety, he’d have to somehow leave the crystals behind…suddenly relaxed.  Ben was right.  It was the perfect solution.  “Yes,” he breathed.  “Yes.  That will work.” 

“Wait a minute,” Richard interrupted.  His eyes flickered fearfully back and forth between James and Ben.  “I’d do anything for you, James. You know that.  But…how do we know these things are safe?  I mean, I know Ben here _thinks_ they are.  But he thought his crystal would be safe for James to keep, too, and look what happened.  Maybe…I dunno.  Maybe they’ll end up giving me and Jeremy cancer, or something.”  He shrugged uncomfortable as four pairs of eyes stared at him.  “Well.  The things _did_ glow bright blue, you know.  Like something radioactive.”

“THEY GLOWED BLUE???” both Amanda and Ben demanded, in perfect, shocked unison. 

“Yes,” James said, startled by their vehemence.  “When I first fit Ben’s crystal with Thaddeus Kroissant’s.  They glowed blue for a moment, and seemed to…fuse, I guess.  Only for a moment, though.  Then they broke apart, and they haven’t glowed again since.”  He frowned at their stunned faces.  “What is it?”

But Amanda and Ben were ignoring him utterly.  To them, it was as if the rest of the room had vanished.  “That shouldn’t have happened,” Amanda said in a low voice.

“No,” Ben agreed.  “At least, it shouldn’t happen until all six of the fragments have been assembled in one place.  Damn.”  He stood up, one hand twisting uncomfortably in his hair.  “I’ve got to do some research on this, Amanda.  Glowing, fusing, making Pre-Immortals seem Immortal…there has to be an answer for all of this strange behavior somewhere.  Maybe one of Rebecca’s Watchers overheard something, once.  There might be a footnote in one of her Chronicles.  That’s where I’ll start, anyway.”  He gathered up his overcoat and started for the door.

“Ben,” Amanda interrupted.  “You’re not a Watcher, anymore.  Remember?”

Ben stopped in his tracks.  His shoulders trembled slightly.  “No,” he said leadenly.  “No.  I’d forgotten, I’m afraid.”  He turned around slowly.  “Well.  That will make my job much harder.”

“Ben,” Amanda said hesitantly.  “You could always ask Joe, you know.  He’s been retired for years now, of course.  But any of the kids he trained will let him get whatever he wants out of the Chronicles, no questions asked.  He can even get protected artifacts out of the vaults. That’s how Duncan got his hands on the Sword of Amphipolis, when he was hunting Kristoff Strife last summer.  The young Watchers all think of Joe as a hero, you see.  And…” She faltered, regained her momentum with an effort.  “And he’d be glad to hear from you.  He _misses_ you.”

“Oh, yes,” Ben said caustically.  “I’m sure he’s spent the last fifteen years sitting by the phone, waiting with baited breath to hear from the man who got his daughter killed.”

“That’s not true!”  Amanda rose to her feet.  “What happened to Amy wasn’t your fault, Methos.  Joe knows that.  He forgave you _years_ ago.  If you’d just stop being a stubborn ass and actually _talk_ to him…”

“Amanda,” Ben said quietly, cutting off Amanda’s tirade in mid-word.  “Some things can’t be forgiven or fixed.  It’s time for you to stop trying.  Let it be.” 

They stood staring at each other for several long moments, Amanda breathing heavily with emotion, Ben stiller, but no less upset.  “Fine,” Amanda said at last.  “I’ll let it go.  For now.  But I have no idea how you’re going to research the crystals without access to the Chronicles.  Last I heard, the Watchers had orders to behead you on sight if you got within a hundred feet of the Great Library.”

Ben’s smile was all sour self-mockery.  “How nice to know that they still care,” he said.  “Fortunately, the Watchers aren’t the only sources of Immortal knowledge left in this world, Amanda.  I know a few other people to ask.  But they’re all living in secret, far beyond the reach of modern roads and cell phone towers.  I will have to be out of touch for several weeks.”  Amanda looked deeply troubled.  Ben chucked her affectionately under the chin.  “Don’t look so worried, little vixen.  The second I know something, I promise that you’ll know it, too.  In the meantime…”  He looked sadly at the table where the crystals once again rested.  “The Methuselah Stone has been dancing in and out of our lives for more than two decades now, and it’s always left chaos in its wake.  Perhaps it’s time to finally figure out what it wants.  Solve its mystery, once and for all.”

Amanda looked like she wanted to cry.  Ben lifted her chin in his hands, and for a moment James was convinced they had forgotten the presence of everyone else in the room.  But Jeremy shattered the moment.  “Would someone care to explain just what the hell is going on now?” he demanded gruffly.

Surprisingly, both Amanda and Ben laughed.  “The crystals should not have glowed blue,” Ben explained, dropping his hands from Amanda’s face.  “At least, they should not have done so until all six fragments were together.  The fact that it tried to assemble itself with just two fragments present means that something very strange is going on, something that requires a lot more research.  Amanda here…” He shot her a fond glance… “kindly pointed out that my usual sources for such research have been cut off.  But there are some other places I can go.”

“Places in hiding,” James said.  “Places far away.”

“Yes.”  Ben nodded.  “I think I will find some answers there.  But it will take some time.”  He started donning his coat.  “I will be in touch.  Amanda?  What are your plans?”

“I think I should stay with the boys for a while,” Amanda said.  “Just until we know for sure that James’s new Pre-Immortal status sans crystals really takes.  Once we do, I think it will be safe to leave them to their own devices.”  She looked Jeremy and Richard over, considering.  “As long as these two agree to keep the crystals protected at all times…”

“Oi,” Jeremy protested.  “I haven’t agreed to any such thing.  Richard’s right.  We don’t know what they’ll do to us.”

“Jeremy,” James said quietly.  “Richard.”  Both his beloveds looked at him inquiringly.  “Look,” James said.  “I don’t know how to explain this to you.  Because the easiest thing would be just to chuck the damn things in a safety deposit box, like Ben said.  But I just can’t do that.  I need…”  He trailed off, searching for words.  “I need to keep them close.  And more than that:  I need _you_ to keep them close for me.  I don’t know how to explain it.  Just…” He looked at his life partners pleadingly.  “Could you each just hold one in your hand for a minute before you decide?  If you see or feel anything that makes you feel wrong or bad, I won’t ask you to do it.  But if you don’t…”

Wordlessly, Richard reached over and picked up one of the stones.  Jeremy sighed and did the same.

James wasn’t sure what he was expecting.  Another flash of blue light, perhaps.  Or maybe an explosion.  Neither of those things happened.  But Jeremy got a puzzled look on his face.  “Well,” he said after a long moment.  “It doesn’t feel _bad_.”

“No,” Richard agreed.  “Not bad.  I do feel something, James.  But it’s not wrong.  It’s more like the hum you get through the steering wheel of a really good Jag. I think…”  He cocked his head slightly to one side, as if hunting for a sound just slightly too quiet to be heard.  Then he straightened up, and in one smooth motion shoved the stone deeply into his trouser pocket.  “There.  Decision made.  Jeremy?”

Jeremy followed suit, putting the second crystal into his own pocket.  “Decision made,” he agreed.  “But…” And his face cracked into the typical Jeremy Clarkson piss-taking smile.  “If my testicles fall off in the middle of Namibia because of some funky crystal radiation, I’m never letting you hear the end of it, James.”

Across the room, Ben looked alarmed.  “Namibia?” he asked quickly.  Too quickly.

“We’re flying there the week after next,” James explained.  “Filming our usual special episode overseas.  Amazon wanted to continue the tradition.”  Ben nodded, but he suddenly looked very distracted.  “What?” James demanded.

“What?  Oh, it’s nothing, James.  I just thought I remembered reading…”  He let it go with a shrug.  “Well.  Never mind.  I’m sure Namibia is a good place for you three to be.  It’s not a country exactly known for its high Immortal population.  Too hot, you see.  We tend to favor climates where we can wear coats heavy enough to hide a sword.  And speaking of swords…”  He tugged the lapels of his presumably sword-free coat meaningfully.  “It’s time I went and reclaimed mine.  Amanda?”

“Oh, I’m staying right here,” Amanda said, curling her knees up under her on the loveseat.  She rolled her eyes expressively at the three Grand Tour presenter’s looks of dismay.  “Don’t look so frightened, my dears.  I have no intention of intruding upon your private gentlemen time.  I’ve already booked a room at another hotel.  But I do think I should stay close by for a few days.  Just to make sure James keeps reading as Pre-Immortal, the way he should.”  She smiled dazzlingly.  “Besides.  I _love_ Africa.  Some of my happiest decades have been spent on this continent…well, the ones where I wasn’t in a dungeon or a prison of some kind, I mean.  The laws against thievery here are absolutely _barbaric_.  Why, I remember one time in 1883…”

And she launched into a complex tale involving a 19th century missionary and a jewel-encrusted holy relic, continually flashing both her legs and her smile.  The story was completely unbelievable—James spotted at least three historical inaccuracies within the first thirty seconds--but that didn’t seem to bother Jeremy or Richard.  They both got identical looks of awe on their faces, and went so far as to sit down next to her.  James would have been irritated, but he caught Ben’s eye…ah.  This was more of the patented Amanda distraction tactics.  She was trying to give him and Ben the chance to say goodbye in peace.  They ducked into the suite’s small foyer.  “Ben.  Tell me the truth,” James said softly.  “What’s in Namibia?”

“Probably nothing,” Ben answered.  “But…” He lowered his voice.  “You remember that manuscript I mentioned?  The one I found when I was trying to save my wife?”

“Yes,” James said.  “About that, Ben.”  He found himself laying a tentative hand on Ben’s forearm.  “I had no idea you’d ever been married, let alone widowed.  And I am sorry.  Truly.”

“I’ve been both more times than you can know,” Ben said calmly.  “But I thank you.  Alexa was very special.  And we had less than a year together; she was already very sick when we met.   That’s probably why I—well, why I threw caution to the wind and did so many very, very stupid things, attempting to get my hands on the Stone for her.  I thought—“  He stopped himself, started over again with a very fake smile.  “Anyway.  One of the _less_ stupid things I did was track down that manuscript.  Most of it was a diary written by the…er, travelling companion…of a 19th century Immortal.  One Federigo Gasparo Guidobaldo di Torregrossa.”  Ben’s smile became more genuine.  “Quite a character, Federigo. One could never quite believe anything he said, and it was never wise to leave your purse unattended in his presence.  Nonetheless, he had a good heart, and the soul of a true adventurer—most of this diary detailed his explorations of Darkest Africa, going places where no other European had yet dared.  Amongst other things, Federigo claimed to have met one very, very old Immortal, not too far from the western coast.  He…”  Ben looked deeply into James’s eyes.  “He claimed that he was the original creator of the Methuselah Stone.  Thousands of years before it found its way to Methuselah himself.  And he called himself Anansi.”

James felt a chill go down his spine.  “Anansi,” he said.  “The demigod trickster who wanted to possess all the stories in the world.”  Ben nodded solemnly.  “He wasn’t a demigod after all, then?  He was just… _Immortal?”_

“It’s not impossible,” Ben said.  “The really old Immortals tend to find their way into all kinds of myths and legends.  People don’t understand what Immortality really is, so they think of us as gods or spirits instead, and make up stories accordingly.  It’s much more likely, of course, that this particular Immortal simply named himself after the Anansi of the ancient tales.  But--”  He shrugged.  “That doesn’t mean that his story might not contain a grain of truth.”

“So that’s why you were researching Anansi, back when we first met!” James exclaimed.  “You were trying to find out more about the crystals.”

“I know how much you like to know the history of things,” Ben said, with a small smile.  “When I gave you the crystal, I wanted to give you the gift of everything I could find out about it, too.  The diary was well beyond my reach then.  But I thought I might be able to find some other hints to the Stone’s origins in the other Anansi tales.”

“And did you?”

“No,” Ben said regretfully.  “So far as I could find, the diary’s story of the crystal and its origin was unique.  But my research did tell me one thing. The Anansi tales have been around for thousands of years.  They’ve spread far and wide during that time, first throughout western and southern Africa, then to the New World.  But most experts believe they had their origin in just one place.”

“Namibia,” James said with utter certainty. 

“Amongst the various tribes who lived north of the Namib Desert, yes,” Ben agreed.  “Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

“Are you going to Namibia too, then?”

“I—“ Ben looked uncertain for a moment, then shook his head decisively.  “No.  Not right away, at least.  I have one or two other sources of information I want to check with before I do that.  Because the author of that diary may have been drunk, or stoned, or simply barking mad.  But…that manuscript was the first place I read of the crystals’ magical ability to keep finding their way into Immortal hands, and _that_ certainly turned out to be true.  Maybe…”  He frowned thoughtfully.  “When do you begin filming your special, James?  Week after next, you said?”

“Yes,” James answered.  “We’re actually heading back home to England in a few more days. Jeremy and Richard have some reviews to film at the new track. And I—I’m taking some time to film the second season of The Reassembler, actually.  Namibia happens after that.”

“What are you reassembling this time?  No, no forget I asked that,” Ben said, waving his hands in an erasing gesture.  “If I ask, then you’ll tell me, and we’ll end up talking about the development of twentieth century technology until dawn.  Which I would love, under any other circumstances.  But now…”  Sadness fell over him like a cloak.  “Now, I really need to go.  I will be in touch, James.  Perhaps we’ll meet up in Namibia, I don’t know.  In the meantime…resist the urge to carry the crystals, all right?  Let your other thirds take the burden for a little while.  And stay safe.  Please.”

“I will if you will.”

“Then we both should be just fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Original Immortal Character known as Federigo Federigo Gasparo Guidobaldo di Torregrossa (AKA "Fate-Worse-Than-Death-Fed") is the brain child of Celebrithil, who graciously allows me to play with him. You can read more about him in Ch. 7 of my Highlander story “The End of Time.”


	7. Chapter 7

Travelling with Amanda was an experience.

If James had thought that he and Jeremy and Richard were experts in the Fine Art of Cocking About, spending time with Amanda proved how much they had to yet learn.  Amanda certainly knew how to have a good time, no matter how unlikely the situation.  And her effervescence tended to spill over until everyone around her was having it, too. 

The time the four of them spent site-seeing around Johannesburg was a revelation to James.  Amanda produced 4 sets of Groucho Marx glasses and insisted on wearing them all over the city, making them pose for ridiculous selfies at every monument and building of note.  She took them to places even Richard thought he was getting slightly too old for—James couldn’t remember the last time the three of them had been on a roller coaster, for instance, but the afternoon they spent at Gold City was bloody good fun.  And every lunchtime and evening, Amanda effortlessly charmed their way into a different exclusive restaurant or club, until eventually they’d visited every hot spot J’Burg had to offer.  All of the Grand Tour Presenters were used to their fame getting them good tables, but somehow it was much more fun to stand back and let Amanda do it instead.  Letting Amanda dazzle the maitre’d’s meant James and Richard and Jeremy could stay somewhat anonymous, which had become a refreshing and novel experience.  Not that they still weren’t recognized from time to time—of course they were, it was inevitable.  But James noticed that it happened a lot less when Amanda was around to draw people’s eyes. 

And whenever they did get recognized, she had an amazing way of suddenly ceasing to draw the eye, of vanishing into the background so completely no one else seemed to realize she was there.  James himself didn’t really notice this until they were all on their private jet flight back to England—another Amazon perk James was getting used to with alarming speed.  Andy had forwarded them a link to some photos the paparazzi had taken of them all in their Groucho noses.  While Richard and Jeremy snoozed in the comfy airplane seats and Amanda leafed through a fashion blog on her tablet, James slowly perused the photos on his phone—and realized, when he was done, that Amanda hadn’t featured in a single picture.  Not one.  “How did you do that?” he asked, speaking quietly enough not to wake his other thirds.

“Do what?” Amanda asked.  For answer, James held up his phone and scrolled through the photos one by one, revealing the distinct lack-of-Amanda-ness.  “Oh.  How did I manage to keep from being photographed, do you mean?  It’s really just a matter of practice, James.  I’ve been avoiding having my picture taken almost since the camera was invented, you see.  And while cameras have changed a lot over the last few decades, photographers really haven’t—it’s easy to spot them by body language alone, if you know what you’re looking for.  I know a lot tricks for staying just out of frame.  I’m good at avoiding security cameras, too.  I’ll be happy to teach you.” 

“Hmmmm.”  James leaned toward her, frowning.  “Amanda.  Why are you doing this?”

She looked puzzled.  “Why am I avoiding being photographed by your paparazzi?” she asked.  “I’d have thought that was obvious, darling.  It’s not good for any Immortal to have his or her face captured in print.  It’s especially not good for me—there are too many warrants out for my arrest.  But in this case, I was mostly doing it for you.”  She smiled dazzlingly.  “Didn’t think it would do any of you any good to be repeatedly photographed with a beautiful blond mystery woman.  Just think of the talk.”

“I didn’t mean that,” James said irritably.  “I meant—“  He gestured helplessly around the plane.  “Why did you volunteer to spend so much time with us?  And why are you being so…nice?”

“Ah.”  Amanda looked startled for a moment, then batted her eyes flirtatiously.  “Well, maybe I just enjoy flying on chartered planes.  It’s much easier getting my sword through a private security inspection that it is through the metal detectors in a commercial airport, you know.”

“Yes.  I saw.”  One of the many perks of having chartered international flights was not having to go through traditional security; instead, they’d just been patted down lightly and their baggage perfunctorily searched by the charter company’s security.  The combination of misdirection—Amanda had made good use of her usual weapons, smile and legs, to distract the inspectors—and sheer slight-of-hand Amanda had employed to keep her coat from being inspected was a marvel to behold.  And the most amazing thing was that James knew he wouldn’t have beheld it at all, if he hadn’t been looking for it—he’d been curious about how Amanda intended to get her sword on the flight for days, and had watched her most carefully.  He was sure that Jeremy and Richard hadn’t noticed, though.  And he was even willing to bet they hadn’t realized there was a sword now tucked in easy reach between the wall and Amanda’s seat.  “What do you do?  When you have to fly a commercial flight?” he asked.

“Usually, I pretend to be an antique dealer, delivering a priceless historical collectible to a wealthy client by hand,”  Amanda answered.  “Most airlines will let you book a seat on the plane for a true antiquity, if you can prove it’s genuine.  Which isn’t hard.  My sword actually is over eight hundred years old.”   She smiled at James’s expression.  “Don’t worry, James.  You’ll learn all these tricks o’ the Immortal trade soon enough.  If…if you decide to join us.”

James looked down awkwardly.  “Or if fate doesn’t decide for me,” he said.  “And I don’t lose my head long before I can learn.”

“That’s not going to happen.” 

“Isn’t it? Ben made it more than clear what he thought my chances of surviving my first Challenge really were, Amanda.” 

“Oh.”  Amanda looked stricken.  “Well.  Yes.  You…your training won’t be easy, James.  But with Ben and me and Richie all helping you…”  He raised his eyebrows at her.  After a moment, she slumped backward, looking defeated.  “Okay,” she admitted quietly.  “Maybe you won’t ever be a true power player in the Game.  But not every Immortal has to be.  Lots of my best Immortal friends never fought Challenges at all.  Father Darius…Father Liam…Brother Paul…”

“Do you really see me as a priest, Amanda?”

“I—all right, no, maybe not.  But there has to be another way.  It’s just a puzzle that needs to be solved.  And if anyone is good at solving puzzles, it’s you, James.”  Amanda leaned forward, laying a gentle hand on his arm.  “I know what it must have been like for you these last few months.  But please believe me.  Being Immortal isn’t all heartbreak and Challenges.  There can be joy in it, too.” 

“Really?” James said roughly.  “Because I’ll be honest.  I haven’t seen a lot of that, so far.”

“I know.” Amanda fell back into her seat.  “I avoided your question, earlier.  But if you really want to know the motives behind my actions these last few days…that was it.  I wanted to show you some of that joy.”

“By wearing silly glasses and riding roller coasters?”

“By living, yes.  By being out in the world and enjoying what it has to offer.  By having some silly fun with people you love.”  She leaned toward him seriously.  “You’ve been extremely lucky in your life so far, James.  You’ve already seen more of the world’s wonders than most mortals ever dream.  But can you imagine what it would be like to go back to J’Burg fifty years from now?  A hundred?  Or even a thousand? I just…I just wanted to give you a bit of a break from the drama.  So you could be a little more clear-sighted, when it came to your choice.”

“And you’d like me to choose Immortality.” 

Amanda nodded eagerly.  “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Purely selfish reasons, James.  I like you.  I’d like to have you around for a few more millennia.”  She shrugged daintily.  “Good Immortal friends are hard to come by.  I only have a few.  I’d like to add you to the list.”

“Amanda, you’ve spent less than three days total in my company.  Why are you so convinced you want me as a friend?”

“Has it only been three days?  It seems much longer than that.  But then, I got a head start on liking you.”

“Because you were a fan of Top Gear?”  James grimaced.  “The cock I play on camera and the cock I am in real life are not one in the same, Amanda.”

She studied him thoughtfully.  “No,” she agreed.  “But maybe they aren’t as different as you like to think, either.”  He flushed.  “Anyway, that’s not what I meant,” Amanda continued.  “I meant that I got a head start on liking you because of Ben.”  She looked anxiously at the still-sleeping Richard and Jeremy, lowered her voice.  “To my knowledge, before you, Ben had only truly loved three people during the last five hundred years.  I never got the chance to meet Alexa.  But the other two I loved very deeply myself.  So…let’s just say that l’m willing to trust his taste.  To believe that anyone Ben cares about as deeply as he cared about you is someone I should have as a friend.”

James regarded his knees uncomfortably, thankful, for once, for Jeremy’s and Richard’s snoring.  It meant there was no chance this conversation would be overheard.  “He really did care about me, didn’t he,” he said. 

“Yes.”

“Who were the other two?  Besides Alexa?”

“The first was my Teacher, Rebecca.  She and Ben were lovers off and on for centuries, until she lost her head.  The second…”  Amanda paused.  “Well.  I believe you fixed his guitar.”

“Joe Dawson,” James said with certainty.  Amanda nodded.  “What happened between them, Amanda?  Ben said something about…” He swallowed.  “About getting Joe’s daughter killed.”

“He didn’t, James.  Ben wasn’t to blame at all.  Honestly.”

“I never thought he was.  What happened?”

“That is a very long story, my friend.”

“We’re in for a very long flight, Amanda.”

“True.”  Amanda looked thoughtful.  “And I suppose someone really should fill you in, since it does involve the crystals.  All right.”  She took a deep breath.  “Do you remember what Ben said about what happened in ’94?  When all but one of the crystals were lost in the Seine?”

“Yes.  One washed ashore and was found by people employed by Ben.”

“That’s right.  So, in June of 1994, Ben had one of the fragments.  So did I, the one given to me by Rebecca.   But the other four all came ashore, too.  And eventually found their ways to much less trustworthy souls.  One of whom happened to be an Immortal who’d been befriended by Joe’s daughter, Amy.”  A look of pain flickered in Amanda’s eyes.  “You have to understand, James, that Joe is…Joe’s mortal.  Mortal-mortal.  Not even pre-Immortal, like you.  But he knows a lot about Immortality.  He’d studied our kind for nearly all of his adult life before fate finally made him cross paths with Duncan, who then introduced him to me, and to Ben.  Well, sort of.  Ben and Joe actually knew each other long before Ben and Duncan did, but Joe didn’t know Ben was Immortal then…”  She trailed off, a faint blush rising in her cheeks.  “Have I confused you utterly yet?”

“No,” said James, who wasn’t confused at all.  “I’m guessing that Ben pulled the same it’s-better-to-never-tell-him-I’m-Immortal crap on Joe that he did on me.”   Amanda looked unhappy about this summing up, but she nodded.  James glanced at her sharply.  “Were they lovers, Amanda?”

“No.”  Amanda seemed very positive about this.  “Just very, very good friends.  And once Joe learned the truth about Ben’s Immortality, it took them several years to become good friends again.  But…Ben and Joe went through some very hard times together, during the summer of ’96.  Duncan disappeared for a while, and then both Ben and Joe thought that Richie had lost his head, and that brought them closer together.  I don’t think they ever actually took the plunge and slept together…but I know they were both thinking about it, more and more with every year that went by.  Ben especially.  He was just getting up the nerve to tell Joe how he really felt, when…”  Her face fell.  “When Amy happened.”

“Tell me.”

“Amy was Joe’s daughter,” Amanda said sadly.  “Joe didn’t raise her.  Her mother was married to someone else when she and Joe had their affair, and she decided not to leave her husband when she discovered she was carrying Joe’s baby.  No, don’t judge,” Amanda said sharply, when she saw James’s expression.  “I imagine that to someone like you, James, infidelity seems like the greatest of sins…even worse than murder, perhaps.  All I can say is this:  yes, Joe had an affair with a married woman, once.  He’s still one of the most honorable men I’ve ever known.  Don’t condemn what you didn’t live through yourself.” 

James nodded, chastened.  He gestured for her to go on.  “Well,” Amanda said, resuming her tale.  “Joe could have made a scandal, insisted on a paternity test and visitation rights and such—but he didn’t. ‘Better to ruin one life then three’, he said.  So Amy’s mother and her husband raised Amy as their own. Amy didn’t even know she was Joe’s daughter until after both her other parents had died, when Amy was already an adult—she found out by accident, going through her mother’s things after she passed away. Amy…”  Amanda sighed heavily.  “Let’s just say that she didn’t take the news very well.”

“Is that so surprising?”

“No.  Perhaps not.”  Amanda looked glum.  “It must have been hard, finding out the truth so late, when there was no way she could talk to her mom or her adoptive father and come to any closure.  She experienced a major trauma right around then, too.  An Immortal who was hunting Ben took Amy hostage, refused to let her go unless Ben faced him in a Challenge. I don’t know for sure what happened to Amy while they were waiting for Ben to arrive, but I doubt Morgan Walker treated her with gentleness.  So I’m going to have to follow my own advice, James, and not condemn Amy for what she did next.  I didn’t live through what she did; I can’t even begin to understand her motivations.  But in her case, remaining non-judgmental is difficult.”  Amanda shook her head.  “Joe did everything he could to welcome her into his life, you see.  He didn’t push, but he was always available if she needed him.  He’d drop everything if she so much as needed someone to go to the store for a loaf of bread.  And in return Amy led him on a merry dance, blowing as hot and cold as the most practiced femme fatal.  It seemed to me like she hated Joe just as much as she admired him, wanted to punish him just as much she wanted to make him proud.  Ben, too.”  Amanda rolled her eyes.  “She treated Ben in exactly the same way—one minute all honey and sugar and “thank you for risking your head to save my life, you wonderful brave Immortal man you”, the next all “don’t you dare come near me, you unnatural Immortal freak.”  Except that Ben didn’t put up with it the way Joe did.  He just stopped seeing her, to the point of politely excusing himself and going elsewhere if he happened to be at Joe’s bar when Amy came in.  I think he was quietly attempting to get Joe to see that she was just using him when John Keith came into her life.”

“The Immortal with the crystal?”

“Exactly.”  Amanda nodded unhappily.  “Now, Joe’s mortal, as I said.  He doesn’t have our magic Immortal spidey-sense.  He had no way of knowing that his daughter’s new boyfriend was one of us.  Ben could have told him, of course, if they’d ever met.  But Amy was smart—she made sure that didn’t happen.  She saw to it that Ben and Keith never crossed paths.”  Amanda sighed.  “Joe thinks that Keith lied to Amy—told her he was a brand-new Immortal, just past his first death, and thus in need of her protection.  It certainly would explain why Amy suddenly became so obsessed with the legend of the crystals—who wouldn’t want her innocent new Immortal lover to never have to face the Game?  Joe…he really, really shouldn’t have, but somehow or other he let it slip to Amy that one of his Immortal friends still had one of the fragments.  He meant me, of course, he didn’t know then that Ben had one too, but Amy assumed it was Ben.  So one week when Joe had closed up the bar so he could scout for new musicians in the States, Amy called Ben up. Told him Joe had left her the keys to the bar so that she could check up on the place, but a pipe had burst and the basement was flooding…help, help, what should she do?  Smart of her, really.  By that point Ben probably wouldn’t have bothered to piss on Amy if her hair was on fire, but he’d have done anything for Joe.  So, instead of just telling her to call a plumber, he went to the bar himself.”

James felt an uncomfortable prickle go up his arms.  “And promptly ran into Keith,” he said. “With sword drawn.”

“Yes,” Amanda confirmed sadly.  “It took me years to get the story out of Ben, James.  But apparently, once Amy had succeeded in luring Ben to the bar, her usefulness to Keith was exhausted.  He killed her, slit her throat right in front of Ben the moment he arrived.  Then Challenged him. Ben won, of course.  But it was a close thing—Keith was far older and more powerful than anyone knew, and Ben came close to losing his head.  The Quickening was powerful enough to start a horrible fire.  Joe was able to salvage a few bits of furniture and some other odds and ends, but mostly, the place was a total loss.  He chose not to reopen, moved to the States full time.  And Ben…”  Amanda spread her hands.  “Ben decided to change identities and move to London.”

“Because Joe blamed him for Amy’s death,” James said.  “But why, Amanda?  If it truly happened like you said…”

“Greif makes people do ugly things, sometimes,” Amanda said gently.  “I don’t think Joe ever really blamed Ben, not really.  It was just in the first few moments that he lashed out.  It’s always hard for mortals, you know, staying friends with an Immortal after a major loss.  Think about it.  Your loved one is dead of something that your Immortal friend can and always will survive, for no good reason that anyone can name—and the unfairness of that tends to fester, until it explodes.  It can make even the best of mortals go a bit savage, blame their Immortal friend simply for still being alive.  And sometimes, an Immortal who’s been hurt enough himself will find that he agrees.”  Amanda shivered.  “I don’t know exactly what Joe said to Ben.  I don’t think the words were even fully formed before he regretted them.  But…men being men…it was a good twenty-four hours before Joe had calmed down enough to admit that.  And…men being men…Ben didn’t give him that time.  He went to the airport straight from Joe’s, kicked around Timbuktu for a few years before he came back and started his new life in London.  By then, Joe had already given up on him, cleared everything out and moved back to the States.  And so…” She spread her hands helplessly.  “A promising love affair ended before it began.  To my knowledge, neither one has spoken to the other since.”

James frowned.  He suspected that there was more to the story than that; there had to be details that Amanda wasn’t privy to.  There had to be a bigger reason than mere survivor’s guilt to explain why Ben still blamed himself…yes, and blamed himself so much that he hadn’t once tried to set things right with the other man, despite loving him enough to care for his guitar for years.  It really was quite the puzzle.  But James didn’t think Amanda had the pieces to solve it.  He chose to address a different mystery.  “What happened to Keith’s crystal?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Amanda answered.  “Ben left it in Joe’s keeping.  There was talk about the Wa…about the group of Immortal scholars Joe belongs to…tucking it away in a vault somewhere, just to keep it safe.  But Joe didn’t really trust those scholars any more than he trusted himself.  He told me before he left Paris that he was going to chuck it right back into the Seine.  Maybe he did.”  She looked at James, suddenly appraising.  “Perhaps that was the crystal that eventually found its way to Thaddeus Kroissant.   Jeremy or Richard could be carrying it right now.”

“What a macabre thought.”  James contemplated his sleeping lovers, suppressed a shudder.  “I’m not sure I want either Richard or Jeremy carrying something with that kind of history.”

“The crystals never killed anyone, James.  Only people did that.”

“You sound like a bloody American.  ‘Guns don’t kill people; only people kill people.’”

“Well, I am American,” Amanda said brightly.  “According to at least five of my passports.”  James glowered at her.  She leaned towards him earnestly, laid a gentle hand on his knee.  “Look, James,” she said seriously.  “The crystals really aren’t evil in themselves.  They’ve been used as tokens of love and friendship for millennia, too.  It’s like…” She paused, clearly wracking her brains, then brightened as an obvious aha moment occurred.  “I watched your ‘Cars of the People’ specials.  So I know you know the true history of the VW bug.  But their Nazi roots aren’t stopping you from using them as the base of your dune buggies for your Namibian adventures, are they?”

“You know about our plans for the dune buggies?”

“Richard told me last night.  In great detail.”

“Oh, god.  That sounds like him,” James groaned.  He shook his head at his sleeping partner fondly.  “His is going to make him look like an enormous cock.”

“I know,” Amanda said with a smirk.  “Jeremy’s too.  Purple metallic flake paint? I can’t wait to see it on film.”  She sobered.  “But the crystals are like that, James.  Neither bad nor good.  That’s decided by how they are used.  And Immortality is exactly the same way.”  She gave his knee another pat.  “Promise me you’ll remember that.  If that’s the only thing I manage to Teach you during our short time together, I’ll be content.”

***

Amanda had planned to spend a few more days “enjoying their company”—or babysitting them, as James sometimes rather sourly thought of it instead—once they returned to London.  But practically the moment their plane had landed, her phone rang.  Amanda answered with a smile and a bright “Well, hello, darling,” that quickly turned to a thoughtful frown and a series of subdued “Yes.  Yes, I see,”s.  When she hung up, she turned to the men with a thousand-watt smile that nonetheless seemed fake.  “Change of plans, gents,” she said.  “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving you, the moment we deplane.  I need to get to Geneva ASAP.”

“Switzerland? Why?” Richard asked, dismayed.  He and Amanda had bonded greatly during the last few days, their invincibly child-like souls finding in each other a deep sense of kinship.  Richard then preceded to do all the questioning and badgering that James would have done, so James didn’t bother to—by the time he was finished, it was obvious Amanda had already said everything she intended to.  James, who remembered that Ben had first studied the crystals’ history while his wife was dying in Geneva, was fairly sure the sudden trip had something to do with that…but he also knew there was no point in asking.  As Jeremy got on the phone and quietly badgered an Amazon flunky into making Amanda’s new flight reservations—a gross abuse of company resources, but one not even James could bring himself to protest—James pulled her close for a goodbye hug, and spoke softly into her ear.  “You’ll tell me if he’s in serious trouble.”

She pulled back from him as if burned.  “Who, Ben?” she said with false cheeriness.  “Don’t be silly, James; this trip of mine has nothing to do with Ben.  I—“  James simply looked at her.  She wilted.  “Tell you what,” she said.  “I’ll tell you he’s in trouble if I think you have an ice cube’s chance in hell of actually helping him out of it.  Fair enough?”

James thought about protesting—for what had to be the thousandth time—that he was not a child.  But he’d been watching Amanda closely in South Africa, perhaps even more closely than she’d been watching him.  And for the most part, she genuinely seemed to be the lighthearted twenty-something she pretended.  But there were moments—hard to describe, but still unmistakable—when her mask slipped; when James suddenly realized that he really was in the presence of something ancient.  And in the face of that age and experience, James really was a child.  So he just nodded, and pulled her back into another hug—a genuine one this time.  And waited with the others until her car had arrived before getting into his own car—delivered to the field by another Amazon flunky—and going home.

Jeremy and Richard stayed with him that first night, but after that, they departed to various far corners of the UK to work.  James was on his own.  He re-started the fridge and picked up the cats.  Roland’s unearthly growth spurt had abated since he’d gone to live with Sim—James pretended to look innocent when Sim complained of this—but James and Sim both agreed it was better to leave him where he was.  It wasn’t worth disturbing him just for a few short weeks, as the plant had firmly entwined its leaves around Sim’s bannister as well as Sim’s and his wife’s heart.  “Don’t know what it is, mate,” Sim said grudgingly over beers at the pub.  “I mean, he must have been getting better light through your kitchen window than he does in our front hall—he’s barely grown at all since we took him in.  But there’s just something about being in the room with him that makes us feel better.  He’s just so bright and leafy and green, I guess. Weird, huh?”

“Very,” James said, thinking about the crystals now living in Jeremy and Richard’s pockets.  Both men had told him that they’d felt a lot better since they began carrying them.  Some of the nagging pain from Jeremy’s long ago slipped disk had finally gone, and both he and Richard were sleeping better at night.  If Roland was anything to go by, the most obvious healing benefits would stop the moment they were out of the crystal’s presence.  But perhaps some long-term effect would remain.  James started whistling softly, and only stopped when Sim looked at him strangely.  “What?”

“What do you have to look so happy about?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”  James countered.  “Filming for the new show is going great.  Plus, I start working on the next Reassembler tomorrow.”  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  “Still can’t believe that the BBC’s going to pay me to play with one of my childhood trains.  Again.”

“That’s what you’re doing next?  The Flying Scotsman?” Sim asked, instantly distracted.  And the conversation went on from there, both men diving into the various intricacies of model train restoration with enthusiasm.  James found himself relaxing for the first time in months.  There was something about being back in London, living Life As He Knew It once again, that made all his unhappy brushes with Immortality seem like a bad dream.  He spent the next few days happy, filming the train episode of The Reassembler in something closely approaching a state of absolute bliss.

Naturally, the moment he finished that first episode, the world of Immortality chose to reassert itself with a bump.

***

The doorbell rang at an unreasonably early hour that Saturday morning.  James, who had been sound asleep, groped for his phone and read the time.  5 am.  Who on earth wanted to disturb him at that unearthly hour?  Sleepily, he padded down the stairs and touched the brand-new touchscreen that had been installed by his front door.  He’d dismissed the 24/7 security escort hired by Kate the moment they’d all returned to London…it really was ridiculous to ask Amazon to pay for such service when James was doing a project for the BBC.  And anyway, the SWWs really did ignore James entirely as long as Jeremy and Richard carried the crystals. 

But he had allowed Jeremy to talk him into installing this state-of-the-art home security system, one that not only monitored every window and door for intrusions, but had cameras that let him observe every corner of the house and yard.  Yawning, James touched the buttons that activated the cameras over the front door...only to stare in astonishment at the two men waiting there.  The first had a face James knew, even though he had only seen it the once, at Richie’s “funeral”.  The second man was harder to identify, since he was wearing a slouchy hat, sunglasses, and one of those hipster knitted scarves the kids were busy reviving wrapped high under his chin.  Even so, James had the oddest feeling he knew him.  He switched on the security system’s intercom.  “Joe?” he said blankly.  “Joe Dawson?”  And when the man in the sunglasses looked up at the camera, the penny dropped.  “Richie?”

The two men looked at each other in consternation.  Richie…for that was undoubtedly who it was, even if his hair looked very odd…sighed and took off his sunglasses.  “Told you it was too soon for me to be in London without being recognized,” he said to Dawson.

Dawson rolled his eyes.  “Never argued with you,” he said.  “I tried to talk you into staying in Seacouver.  You’re the one who insisted on going all Goth-phase and coming with me anyway, remember?”  He turned with a little sigh to the intercom.  “Yeah, Mr. May, it’s us,” he said.  “Look, we’re really sorry to disturb you like this.  I know we should have called first.  But our plane just got in, and…well, we needed to speak to you in person.”  He looked up into the camera almost pleadingly.  “Can we come inside?  Just for a few minutes?”

James unlocked the door.


	8. Chapter 8

The second he had the door opened, James stepped onto the porch and swept Richie into a hug, holding onto the kid with an emotion that startled them both.  “Whoa, easy there, easy,” Richie said, both amused and understanding.  “I forgot that the we haven’t seen each other since you thought I was dead.  It’s okay, man.  I’m really okay.” 

James nodded and pulled back, staring Richie’s hair.  Richie laughed and reached up to touch a dark lock self-consciously.  “I know, I know, black hair always makes me look terrible,” he said.  “I’d have been better off going what you Brits call ‘ginger’, I think, just like the Doctor always wanted to be.  But we were in a hurry, and there weren’t a lot of options for hair dye in the airport gift shop.  So “Ravishing Raven” it was.  I can’t wait to tell Amanda all about it.”  His face fell.  “When we find her.  If we find her.”

James froze.  “Amanda’s missing?”

“Yeah,” Richie said heavily.  “Ben is, too.  And since we already know you were pretty much the last person to see them both, we were hoping that you…”

“Richie,” Dawson interrupted.  “This is not front porch conversation.” He nodded at the door.  “Let’s get the luggage inside and talk there.  If that’s all right with you, Mr. May?”

“Please, call me James,” James answered, and leapt to lend a hand.

Joe Dawson really hadn’t aged that much in the years since James had seen him last.  One or two of the lines in his face might have gotten a bit deeper.  But his hair, though steel gray, was as thick as ever, and despite his limp he moved with the same strength and assurance James remembered.  James helped Richie carry Richie’s luggage inside—a simple black rolling carryon and a big awkward duffle bag, which James knew without a doubt concealed a sword.  But Dawson carried all his luggage himself, including a heavy leather messenger bag and a well-traveled guitar case covered with at least two dozen airline stickers.  “Is that the guitar you played at Richie’s ‘funeral’?” James asked.

Dawson blinked.  “Yeah,” he said, looking down at the case fondly.  “A ’69 Gibson EB2DC.  Not the best guitar Gibson ever made, but she’s special to me.  She had a bad accident back in the zeros, and I didn’t think I’d ever play her again, but…” His eyes suddenly widened, taking in James’s not-too-successfully hidden smug expression.  “And you already know all this, because you were the one Adam paid to fix her,” he finished with certainty.  “Damn.  I really should have figured it out sooner.”  He suddenly reached out, clasping James’s hand gratefully.  “Thank you, man.  I mean it.  You gave me more than you’ll ever know.”

“Ben didn’t pay James to do it, Joe,” Richie interrupted.  “James did it for free.”

“Really?”

“Well, yes,” James confirmed.  “It was all Ben’s idea, though.  He said that he’d been looking for someone who could do the job for years.  I’m just glad that person could be me.”  Dawson suddenly looked very, very sad.  “But neither of you is here to talk about the guitar,” James finished.  “Come on through to the living room.  Then you can sit down and tell me what all this is about.”

“Well, it could be nothing,” Dawson admitted, as both he and Richie followed James’s lead and took a seat on James’s sofa.  “Especially when it comes to Adam—well, I guess you know him better as Ben, James.  God knows, that man has turned disappearing into the woodwork into an Olympic sport.  And it’s not like I’d ever expect him to return _my_ phone calls or e-mails, anyway…” 

“He always wanted to, Joe,” Richie said softly.  “Trust me.  He just…he just didn’t think he deserved to.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dawson said.  “Maybe that’s really true.  I never would have believed it, but now…”  He shrugged his broad shoulders.  “Well, anyway,” he said, in the tones of a man determined not to get bogged down in the past.  “Whatever Ben’s reasons for staying out of touch with me for so long were, the fact of the matter is that I hadn’t heard from him in almost two decades, except for him sending me my guitar several years back.  So when he sent me a letter from Switzerland a few weeks ago—well, it made me worry.  Especially when Richie here came by my bar for a visit, and told me that Ben had recently sent him a worrying letter of his own.  Richie?”

“Not worrying, so much as strange,” Richie said, easily taking over the story.  “It was filled with…well, fatherly advice, I guess.  Which is weird as all get out coming from Ben of all people, but that’s what it was.  Most of it boiled down to ‘don’t take life too seriously, be sure to take time to relax and smell the roses’.  But he also gave me a few exercises for improving my sword grip, and included a recipe, of all things.  It’s for some sort of ancient Roman seafood dish that he claimed was the best thing he’d ever eaten, like, _ever_.  And I--” Richie hesitated.  “Well.  As Joe said, it could be nothing.  Ben always acts for his own reasons, and generally, he totally sucks at explaining what those reasons are.  But to me, it felt sort of like…like a last will and testament, if you know what I’m saying.  Willing on his best recipe and his best advice to the next generation.  Especially when I learned that Joe had gotten a similar letter, mailed on the very same day. So…”

“Wait a minute,” James interrupted.  “Just what day did Ben mail these letters, exactly?”

Richie told him.  James frowned, adding up the dates in his head.  “That would have been only a few days after Ben left us in Johannesburg,” he said thoughtfully.  “I assume the first thing you did was try to call him, Richie.  He didn’t pick up?”

“No.  Not on any of his numbers,” Richie confirmed.  “He didn’t respond to any of our e-mails or texts, either.  So, after both Joe and I had tried, and failed, everything we could think of to get in contact with him, we decided to pull out the heavy weaponry.”

“Amanda?” James asked.

“Exactly,” Richie nodded.  “Amanda.  She’s pretty much the only person I know that Ben will always return a phone call to, even if it sometimes takes him a while.  But…”

“But we can’t seem to get a hold of Amanda, either,” Dawson finished.  “Now, again, at first this didn’t seem like a reason to worry.  Amanda _is_ Amanda, after all.  Her being out of touch now could mean nothing more than that she took a sudden notion to refresh her tan and is happily sunbathing on a private beach somewhere, completely ignoring her phone.  Richie and I had pretty much come to the conclusion that we were both being first class worrywarts and had decided just to wait and see.  But then—the day before yesterday, my postman delivered this.”  Dawson touched the leather messenger bag that was now resting in his lap, and suddenly paused.  His left hand went to his right wrist for a moment.  “James.  How much did Ben and Amanda tell you about what I used to do?  Before I retired?”

Richie suddenly straightened, as if he was just as interested in James’s answer as Dawson was.  “Not much,” James answered, looking back and forth between them curiously.  “Just that you used to run a bar in Paris as well as Seacouver.  And that you were some kind of expert in Immortal lore.”

“Ah.”  Inexplicably, both Joe Dawson and Richie seemed to relax.  Dawson’s hand dropped away from his wrist.  “Yes.  That’s right.  Well then.  I guess the first thing to tell you is that two days before this package arrived, there was a burglary at…at a place I know.  A private library in Paris, one that houses a great many priceless old manuscripts and books.  Nobody got a direct look at the burglar—she was far too good to let herself get caught on any of the security cameras—“

“She?”

“Yeah. That’s right.  She,” Joe repeated significantly.  “Like I said, there was nothing caught on camera.  But the only night watchman who caught a glimpse of her described a slender woman dressed entirely in black, including a ski mask and knee-high leather stiletto boots.”  James groaned aloud.  “I know. That outfit sounded real familiar to me, too,” Joe said wryly.  “So I pretty much knew Amanda was the thief right from the start—though why she’d want to steal an old 18th century journal was beyond me.  There are much more valuable things in that building, after all.  But then—“

“Wait a second,” James interrupted.  “This journal didn’t happen to belong to a mortal who explored the west coast of Africa with an Immortal named Federigo, did it?”

“Yeah,” Dawson said.  “It did.” His clear eyes focused on James intently.  “How did you know?”

“Because I think I know why Amanda wanted it,” James answered.  “I think Ben probably sent her to get it.  Assuming that Amanda really was the thief.”

“Oh, Amanda was the thief, all right,” Richie said ruefully.  “Show him, Joe.”

“Yes.”

Dawson gently slid an old-fashioned sailor’s log book out of his bag, the kind that had a wrap-around leather cover, lined in oiled cloth, that tied and kept the inner pages safe from water.  There was an odd stylized circular symbol—James thought it looked a bit like a flying bird--tooled into the cover.  With careful hands, Dawson opened the journal, pulled a loose sheet of paper out of the pages, and handed it to James.  In contrast to the book, this new page was decidedly modern.  It appeared to be a sheet torn hastily from a yellow legal pad, the top edge jagged and rough.  Written on it in dashing black ink were the words: 

****

**_Joe: Guard this book with your life!  Will explain later.  Amanda._ **

 

“I didn’t understand at first why Amanda would think this journal needed protecting,” Dawson said, reclaiming the sheet and tucking it back into the book.  “My Portuguese is a bit rusty, but most of it seems to be complaints about the hardships of travel: sea sickness, dysentery, you know the drill.  There’s a seven-page rant in the middle all about head lice.  But towards the end there’s a…a story.  A lot of people might see it as a fairytale…”

“About the creation of the Methuselah Stone.”

“Yeah.”  Joe nodded.  He looked at James appraisingly.  “So. You already know, then.  About the journal.  _And_ the Stone.”

“Just the barest outline,” James admitted.   “I know what the Stone is, and what it’s reputedly able to do.  And Ben told me that he’d once found such a story in just such a journal, back when he was trying to save his wife Alexa.  It wouldn’t surprise me that he talked Amanda into retrieving it for him.”

“No.  Put that way, I guess it…I guess it doesn’t surprise me, either.”  Joe cocked his head to one side, his eyes suddenly alight with worry.  “James.  Tell me the truth, please.  Are Ben and Amanda trying to reassemble the Stone?”

“No,” James said thoughtfully, thinking about the crystals that were even now living in Jeremy’s and Richard’s pockets.  “No, I don’t think they can be.  I don’t think either of them wants that kind of power, Joe.  I think they’re just…trying to figure out where it came from.  So they can understand what it wants.  And why it’s been doing some of the odd things it’s been doing lately.”  For some reason, this didn’t seem to reassure Dawson at all; if anything, he looked even more worried.  So did Richie.  “Would it be so bad, though, if one of them did?” James asked quietly. 

“What do you mean?” Richie asked.

“I haven’t seen much of Immortality, I admit,” James answered.  “But from what I have seen—if either Amanda or Ben did end up possessing the complete Stone and winning this stupid Game somehow, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.  It sure seems like the Stone is determined that it’s going to be reassembled by _someone_.  The pieces keep finding their way into Immortal hands, after all.  Clearly Amanda’s Teacher’s strategy of breaking it up amongst her students to keep it safe didn’t work for long.  So if it’s going to happen anyway…well.  Wouldn’t it be better if the Stone was held by Amanda or Ben rather than an Immortal like Thaddeus Kroissant?”  James shuddered.  “Maybe if it’s known that the Prize has already been as good as won, the Game can stop.  And those of us who never wanted to participate in it in the first place can just live in peace.” 

“No,” Dawson said regretfully.  “I’m sorry, James.  I know enough about your situation to understand why you’d think that, and why the idea would be so attractive to you.  But the Game just doesn’t work that way.”

“It really doesn’t,” Richie agreed.  “I—there’s no good way to explain it to you, James, not until you become Immortal yourself.  But when you do…you’ll know.  The Game’s not just something we _do._ It’s what we _are._ Even those of us who genuinely try to stay out of the fight always get drawn back into it, eventually.”  He got to his feet, started pacing around the living room unhappily.  “Oh, we like to tell ourselves that there’s good reasons for it.  That the only reason we’re fighting any given Challenge is for justice, or for vengeance, or to protect someone we love.  Maybe for a few of us, some of the time, it’s even true.  But for the most part?  Those are just pretty stories we like to tell ourselves after the fact.  Because the real truth is—we were made to fight.  And resisting a Challenge is about as pointless as a moth trying to resist flying into a bright shiny flame.”  Richie pulled his shoulders in uncomfortably.  “Even if one of us assembled the Stone and became invincible, and the rest of us all knew that?  We’d still all fight him or her eventually.  It would just be a matter of time.”

“Richie.”  Dawson sounded horrified.  “Do you think…could that be that’s what Ben could be thinking?  That since there’s no way to stop the Game, if he destroys the Stone, at least he’ll succeed in keeping the Game from being perverted?”

“I--”  Richie frowned, and after a few beats, it became clear that he had no idea how to finish the sentence.  He just closed his mouth and shook his head, looking stunned.

Silence reigned for a long uncomfortable moment.  James had the feeling that the two men had forgotten his presence entirely.  He almost didn’t want to ask.  But he had to.  “Destroy the Stone?” he asked softly.  “Is that even possible?”

“Yeah,” Richie said, just as quiet.  “Theoretically, anyway.  According to the story in the journal.”

“I thought the journal story told how the Stone had been created.  Not how it could be destroyed.”

“It is,” Joe Dawson answered.  “Mostly.” He cradled the journal thoughtfully in his lap.  “Once upon a time, there was a very old Immortal woman named Kaya, one who had lived in Africa ‘almost since the Sky Father first created the world’.  She had spent her entire life living with the same small tribe, revered as their chief wise woman, midwife, and healer by generation after generation…until one day she fell in love with one of the village maidens, a beautiful young girl by the name of Abeni.  Apparently Abeni was quite an extraordinary lady herself, equally smart and caring and good.  She returned Kaya’s affections, and the two of them became sister-priestesses, working together constantly for the good of the tribe.  Then, one day, Kaya looked at her beloved and discovered that Abeni’s hair was no longer black, but solid grey, and Kaya…went a bit crazy.  It just suddenly hit her all at once, the fact that Abeni was mortal and would die soon and leave her.  So she prayed to the Sky Father and the Earth Mother to make Abeni Immortal, too.  They didn’t answer her.  But someone did.  A trickster spirit who liked to walk around in the shape of giant spider, named…” 

“Anansi.”

“Exactly.”  Dawson raised his eyebrows.  “You’ve studied traditional African folk tales, James?”

“Hardly,” James answered. “I only know the little Ben told me.  He did a lot of research on Anansi right after we first met.”

“Hmmm.”  Dawson looked troubled, but dismissed it in favor of going on with his tale.  “Well.  Then you probably already know that Anansi isn’t the most pleasant of characters.  He’s petty and easily bored, pretty much always in it for himself.  Sometimes he’ll make it seem like he’s doing a human being a favor, answering a prayer just out of the goodness of his heart.  But there’s always a sting in it somewhere.  So, Anansi heard Kaya’s prayer, and took her to a sacred place:  ‘the cave of light’, the tribesmen called it.  And there he told her that he could make a Stone that would allow Abeni to live forever, as young and healthy as she was at her prime.  But it would require an extraordinary sacrifice to make it happen.  Kaya would have to give up her own Immortality.”

“Sting indeed,” James murmured.  “What did Kaya do?”

“The Stone exists, doesn’t it?”  Richie said bluntly.  “Of course Kaya took the deal.”

“Yes,” Dawson agreed.  “According to the legend, Anansi yanked Kaya’s Quickening out of her body and mixed it with the sacred earth of the cave to make the Stone.  When it was done, Anansi said he’d allow Kaya to live out her natural lifespan as a mortal.  So she went back to Abeni, gave her the stone, and didn’t tell her the price she’d paid to procure it.  Abeni didn’t find out until her formerly Immortal beloved was bitten by—you guessed it—a deadly spider.  Then, when Kaya was dying, instead of healing instantly as Abeni expected, she finally told her the truth.”  Joe looked sad.  “And it was Abeni’s turn to go mad with grief.”

“What did she do?”

“First, she buried her beloved Kaya, the Immortal she’d thought would outlive her until the end of time,” Joe answered heavily.  “Then, she climbed to the top of ‘the world’s tallest mountain.’  Calling on all the gods and spirits to witness her rage at Anansi and his duplicitous trick, she flung the Stone down to the earth, where it broke into six pieces.  And then she flung herself down right after it.”

James shuddered.  “Not a happy story at all, then.”

“Tradition folk tales seldom are,” Joe said.  “In this case, it gets worse.  Abeni’s body split into six pieces as well—her breasts became two mountains, her legs a river, her heart and her pouring blood a waterfall, etc. etc.  If you study a lot of primitive myth, you’ll know exactly the sort of thing.  Meanwhile, the Earth Mother was moved enough by the tragedy to at least slap Anansi on the wrist.  She sentenced him to stay in his tiny, eight-legged insect form for a thousand years, instead of shape-shifting back into a giant spider or a human being, as he was wont to do.  It didn’t stop Anansi, though.  He used his tiny body to crawl out amongst the wreckage of Abeni’s body and laboriously pushed all the pieces of the Stone together, reassembling it.  And then he saw to it that the Stone went on its merry way into the greater world.”

“Where,” Richie put in, “it’s been causing trouble ever since.”

“Well, not _always,”_ Joe said.  “According to the journal, when the Stone was splashed by Abeni’s blood, it came to life, with a heart and intelligence of its own.  And sometimes, it managed to do what it felt it had been created to do: namely, it would find a mortal/Immortal couple who were truly in love and allow them to live happily together, for a few decades or centuries at least.  I—I imagine this part of the story is what Adam—Ben—focused on, when he was trying to reunite the Stone for Alexa.”  Dawson looked lost for a moment, then resolutely returned to the matter at hand.  “The problem is, even though the Stone was made _from_ Kaya’s Quickening, it was made _by_ Anansi.  And he was never the type to simply let people relax and be happy.  He never let the Stone fall completely out his web, you see.  He always reclaimed it eventually, and sent it on its way …usually with vast amounts of blood and mayhem as a result.  So.  After a few centuries of this…maybe even a few millennia…the Earth Mother got fed up.  She declared that the Stone had become more trouble than it was worth, and needed to be destroyed.  The problem was, not even she had the power to do that.  Apparently, something that had been brought into this world by such a great sacrifice has a magic of its own—a magic stronger than any deity’s, even the Earth Mother’s.  It can only be taken out of it with an equal sacrifice.” 

“In other words,” Richie said, “It can only be destroyed by the willing surrender of another Immortal life.”

James stared.  “You don’t think—Ben???”

“I don’t know,” Joe said wretchedly.  “I wouldn’t have thought so at all, before last week.  Meth—Ben is a man who has spent his entire very long lifetime looking out for number one, after all.  He’s _proud_ of it.  He’ll tell you plainly that he’s never once risked his head for anything or anyone, ever.  But…”  Joe looked down at his knees.  “He did send that letter to Richie, which sounded for all the world like a good-bye.  And the one he wrote for me…”  Joe stopped.

James studied him carefully.  “What did he say, Joe?” 

Joe still hesitated.  Next to him, Richie heaved a gusty sigh.  “Look, Joe,” he said with surprising gentleness, re-seating himself at Joe’s side.  “This is me you’re talking to.  You know I’m the last person on earth you have to be in the closet around.  And I’m pretty sure that James here plays for the same team.  So if what you’re trying so hard NOT to say is that Ben finally told you he’s in love with you, all I can say is, it’s about damn time.”

“Agreed,” James said heartily.

Joe’s eyes widened comically.  “You knew? You both knew?”  Both James and Richie nodded.  “But…but how?” Joe said, sounding absolutely flabbergasted.  “I mean, I thought…James.  Amanda said that Ben and _you…”_

“Ah.”  James found himself coloring.  “I, um.  Er.  Well.  We gave it a try, once, a few months after we first met.  It didn’t work very well.”  Now Joe was eyeing him with outright skepticism, which, considering that they were talking about _Ben,_ one of the sexiest beings to ever walk the earth, James really couldn’t blame him for.  “Not because…er…not because of anything, um, physical,” he stammered, coloring further.  “It just didn’t work because I was already in love with someone else.”  He shrugged uncomfortably.  “I hadn’t really admitted it to myself yet, you see.”

For a second Dawson continued to stare.  And then he nodded.  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.”

“God, so do I,” Richie interrupted. He was leaning forward now, with his chin resting in his hand. “I messed up all kinds of good things myself before I finally realized I was already taken, once and for all.  Not that realizing it really did me much good.  But at least it stopped me from hurting other people, looking for a second best that would never measure up.”

Dawson looked pained.  “You just have to give him time, Richie,” he said.  “He’ll come around one day.”

“Maybe,” Richie answered.  “But first he’ll have to stop thinking of me as a kid.  And God only know how many centuries I’ll have to live to accomplish that.  But we weren’t talking about my ridiculously disappointing love life, here.  We were talking about James’s.  Which I think probably hasn’t turned out to be disappointing at all.”  He smiled then, the expression rueful.  “I’m curious, though.  Did Ben know you were in love with someone else before you guys did the deed?”

“Er, no,” James said, resisting the urge to squirm with adolescent embarrassment.  The blushing was already bad enough.  “No, Ben didn’t know either.  But once he did figure it out, he helped me to see it.  Which changed everything.”  James looked at Dawson.  “Though now that I come to consider it, I was doubly blind. I should have realized all along that the reason it didn’t work wasn’t just because I was already in love with someone else--Ben was, too.  With you, Joe.  Shame, really, that I’m not as good at figuring things out as he is.  I might have been able to save you two years of grief.”  Now it was Dawson’s turn to color, a deep red flush that went all the way up to the roots of his grey hair.  James leaned toward him.  “What did Ben’s letter say, Joe?”

“Um—“  It took Dawson a moment to get his words back, but he managed.  “Well.  It _didn’t_ say he was in love with me.   I suppose that’s too much to ask for, considering.  But…I guess he came pretty close.”  Joe looked down at his knees.  “He did say that I was the best mortal friend he’d had in…in a very long time.  He did say that the years we spent in Paris after I finally knew his real name and age were the happiest he’d ever had.  Maybe that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me, as they were the happiest years I ever had, too.  But I’d never expected him to say so out loud, let alone put it down in writing.  He, uh, he apologized again for what he did to Amy…”

“Wait a second,” Richie interrupted.  “What exactly _did_ he do to Amy, Joe?  I mean, I know he’s always blamed himself, but for the life of me, I could never figure out why.  From what Amanda told me, there was no way he could have stopped Keith from…doing what he did.  He didn’t even know ahead of time that Keith was Immortal.”

“Oh, Ben knew Keith was Immortal, all right,” Joe said bitterly.  “That’s why I…” He stopped himself, took a very deep breath. “But Amanda’s right, Richie.  Ben really wasn’t responsible.  If anything, the blame should lie with me.”

“Good god, Joe, why?”

“Because if it wasn’t for me, Amy would have ever gotten involved with Keith in the first place.” 

“But—”  Richie looked flabbergasted.  “But that’s crazy, Joe.  It’s not like you _introduced_ them, or anything.”

“No.  But it was my fault they started dating, just the same.” Dawson nodded at James.  “The Wat—the society Amy and I both belonged to, the one that studies Immortals?  We had very clear rules about mortal-Immortal interaction.  We weren’t even supposed to speak to the Immortals we studied, let alone become friends with them.  Amy knew that.  She probably would have been content to spend her whole life living by those rules.  But me—well. I broke them, over and over again.  Immortals like Ben and Duncan and Richie became my best friends, my family.  Amy saw that.  Hell, she probably even realized just how…involved… Ben and I were becoming, too.  So.  It’s not really so surprising that she broke the rules too, decided to fall in love with an Immortal of her own.  She was just following in her old man’s footsteps.”  Dawson shook his head.  “And god knows, if she’d just fallen for someone decent, like Duncan or like you, Richie, I’d have cheered her on.  It was just bad luck that she happened to fall in love with Keith instead.”

“What happened, Joe?”  James asked softly.

“Well, I guess you already know that Keith was a bad apple,” Dawson said.  “I’m still not sure exactly how he and Amy met, or just why Keith started romancing her in the first place.  But I do know why he kept it up.  She was feeding him our society’s information on other Immortals, so he could find them and Challenge them more easily.  Ben told me right after Amy died that that’s what tipped him off first.  Suddenly the numbers of Immortal dead in Paris went up exponentially, and all the Challenges were fought within a few miles of my bar.  I’m still not sure what put him on Keith’s scent. I know that Ben never met Keith in person.  Amy knew that if Ben sensed Keith was Immortal, no power on earth would stop him from telling me, and the jig would be up.  But somehow, Ben got suspicious of Amy’s new boyfriend anyway.  And so one day, while he and Amy were just sitting around waiting for me to finish closing up, he told her the story of the Methuselah Stone.  All about what had happened in ’94.  And how he still had one of the crystals in his possession.”

“Wait a minute,” Richie interrupted.  “ _Ben_ was the one who told Amy about the crystals?  Amanda thought _you_ had.”

Joe shook his head solemnly.  “I knew better,” he said quietly.  “I—oh, hell, Richie.  I already knew Amy wasn’t the most stable person on the planet.  And I knew what a temptation the Stone could be, to mortals and Immortals alike.  I’d seen how the dream of living forever could get into people’s heads, make them do horrible things to make it come true.  So if it had been up to me, Amy would have never known the Stone was anything more than a legend.  Just like a thousand other Immortal legends, impossible to prove.”  Joe bent his head.  “But Ben told her the true story, or most of it, anyway.  He figured the crystal was a lure strong enough to flush any Immortal out of hiding.  And he was more right than he knew.  Because Keith already _had_ one of the crystal fragments in his possession—god only knows how he got it.  Maybe like Ben, he found one of the ones that washed up on the banks of the Seine.  Whatever happened, he was willing to do anything to get his hands on another one.  He got Amy to call Ben with a ridiculous story about a broken water pipe in my bar one day when I was out of town.  Ben knew it was ridiculous, but he went anyway…it was what he’d been waiting for all along.  And…”  Joe’s face set into harsh, sharp lines.  “I’m guessing you both know what happened next.”

“Ben took Keith’s head,” James said quietly.  It still seemed unreal that he could even form the words, talk about beheading someone so casually.  “But not before Keith had killed Amy.”

“Yeah.”  Joe nodded.  “Keith had never really cared about Amy at all, you see.  Once Ben saw him and identified him, he knew her days of acting as a fountain of Immortal information was over.  And he figured that killing her right in front of Ben just might horrify Ben enough to give him an advantage in the Challenge.”  Joe ran his hands roughly through his hair.  “It _wasn’t_ Ben’s fault.  But I—when he first told me all this, right after it happened, all I could see was that he’d intentionally used _my daughter_ to lure out Keith.  Put her in harm’s way on purpose.  I didn’t understand why he hadn’t just told me his suspicions, so we could have worked together.  I even…Christ, I even accused him of knowing ahead of time that Keith had another crystal.  Of being so crazy to get his hands on it that he didn’t care about Amy at all.”   Joe’s voice got even sadder.  “He didn’t deny it, either.  Just froze solid for a second, like I’d slapped him across the face.  Then he walked away without a word.  But a few days later, I got a package in the mail.  There was no note, no return address.  But the crystal he’d taken from Keith’s body was inside.”

“Ben sent you Keith’s crystal?”  Richie said, clearly startled.  “But why?”

Dawson shrugged.  “I never did find out,” he said.  “But…I think it was his way of telling me that he really didn’t want the Stone at all.  And I felt horrible.  I tried to call him at once.  But…he’d already left Paris, pulled one of his famous disappearing acts, and there was no way to track him down.  The next I heard from him was twelve years later, when he mailed me my old guitar back.”  Dawson nodded at the case, just visible through the open living room door.  “I tried to call him then, too.  First the number that was on the bottom of the customs form, then another two I bullied Amanda into giving me.  I didn’t have to bully too hard; she thought it was long past time we reconciled our differences.  But I never got Adam to pick up, and he never returned any of my messages.  So I stopped trying.  And then…last week I got that letter.”  Dawson shook his head wonderingly.  “He apologized.  Told me that the real reason he hadn’t told me about his suspicions was he was trying to protect _me;_ he didn’t want me to go through the pain of realizing my daughter had been helping to kill Immortals until he had cold hard proof.  Then he said her death really was his fault, for not seeing ahead of time how stone-cold a bastard Keith was.  He said the whole thing was his responsibility, for not taking any precautions to keep Amy safe.  And he asked me to try to forgive him.”  Dawson’s fist clenched.  “And…well.  It’s like Richie said.  The whole thing really felt scarily like a last will and testament…like he was trying to close up accounts and make amends.  Trying to say goodbye.”

“You think Ben might be thinking of sacrificing his life?  Giving up his head so the Stone can leave the world, once and for all?” James said incredulously.  Dawson nodded.  “But wouldn’t he need all the crystals together in one place for that?”

“I don’t know,” Dawson answered.  “I guess I just assumed that’s where he and Amanda had gone.  To put all the pieces back together.”  He looked at James squarely.  “So.  I’m asking you, James.  Do you have any idea where they might have gone?  Because if destroying the Stone really is what Ben has in mind, I need to stop him.”  His voice roughed.  “Or if I can’t do that, I have to at least see him first.  And make sure he knows how I feel.”

“You’re in love with him, too.”

“Always have been,” Dawson agreed.  “It just…took me a very long time to realize it.”

“Yes.  I think we all know how that works,” James said.  “Well.  The last I heard, Ben was going to Geneva.  I don’t know why for sure, but I do know that the last time he studied the Stone in any depth, it was while his wife was dying.  Maybe he left a cache of papers somewhere in the city that he wanted another look at.  When Amanda left me at Heathrow, she said she was going to Geneva, too.  But I doubt they’re still there.  Especially if Ben’s talked Amanda into committing burglaries for him in Paris.”  Both Dawson and Richie nodded dispiritedly, Dawson especially so.  James leaned toward him.  “But I really don’t think you have to worry about Ben doing something stupid,” he said.  “As I said, he’s just trying to study the crystals.  Understand them.  Not put them back together.”

“Yeah?”  Dawson seemed skeptical, but willing to hear James out.  “And just how would you know that?”

“Because two of the fragments are with me,” James said.  “Not here,” he added hurriedly, seeing the two men’s eyes widen.  “They aren’t in London at all right now, actually.  But they’re safe.  And both Ben and Amanda know where they are.  If they really wanted to put the Stone together, one or the other would have asked me for them, or else Amanda would just have stolen them outright.  She hasn’t.  So that’s not what they’re after, at all.”  He leaned forward, touching the yellow sheet of paper Joe had left sticking out of the journal.  “This, though—this worries me.  If Amanda sent this book to you, with a message to guard it with your life—that implies there’s someone or something it needs to be guarded _from_.  And if Ben’s sending ‘last letters’ to you and Richie, making amends…” His hand faltered.  “Maybe he doesn’t think he’s going to survive whoever or whatever that is.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, very quiet.  “I think you could be right.” He started to stand up, laboriously pulling himself off the couch with his cane.  “Geneva, huh?” he said.  “Well, it’s a good place to start.  I still have some, ah, associates there.  Maybe one of them saw something.  It’s worth a try.”

Richie stood up too, taking a cell phone from his pocket.  “I think so, too,” he said.  “I’ll get us a cab back to Heathrow.”

“You’re going to Geneva?  Both of you?”

“Yeah.  Like Joe said, it’s a good place to start,” Richie answered.  He frowned at his phone.  “Damn.  The battery’s dead.  I knew I shouldn’t have spent so many hours playing Panda Pop on the plane.  James?  Could I…”

“Use my land line.  It’s in my kitchen,” James said.  Richie nodded and went, scooping up his luggage from James’s front hall as he did.  Dawson stood too, carefully placing the old journal in his messenger bag.  Then limped over to James, holding out his hands.  “Thank you, James,” he said, sincerity plain.  “For helping us now, and for fixing my guitar.  I really meant it when I said it meant more to me than you could know.”

James clasped the man’s hands gently, let them go.  “Ben said it was very special.”

“Yeah.”  Dawson nodded.  “She was left to me by a buddy who died in Vietnam.  When I got back myself, sometimes keeping her tuned and working hard to learn how to play better were the only two things that kept me sane.  I don’t think I ever told Ben that, not in so many words.  But I guess I’m not surprised he figured it out.”  Dawson cleared his throat.  “Look, James. Let’s exchange numbers, all right?  I’ll give you Richie’s, too. That way we can keep in touch.  I’ll let you know if I happen to find either of our lost sheep.  And you can call us if one of them contacts you.  All right?”

“All right.”  They exchanged phones, quickly performing the 21st century ritual of programming their information into each other’s contact lists.  Then they performed a much older rite: a handshake.  Joe’s shake was warm and steady, as warm as steady as his eyes.  “If all goes well and we can get a direct flight, we’ll be in Geneva tonight,” he said.  “I’ll call you then.  Take care of yourself, James.”

“You as well, Joe.”

James’s kitchen door creaked open, Richie’s youthful face poking through.  “Cab’s here already!” he exclaimed.  “I saw it through the kitchen window.  Man, these London drivers are something else.  Totally puts Uber in the States to shame.  Joe?  Need a hand with your guitar?”

“No, man, I got it.”

“Okay.  I’ll meet you in the cab in a minute.  I just want to say goodbye to James.” 

“Okay.”  Dawson nodded his own goodbye at James, picked up his baggage, and went out the door.

“So listen, James,” Richie said, lowering his voice.  “I, um—I didn’t really want Joe to overhear this.  But…well.  You know now.  About us.  And about you.”  He looked extremely uncomfortable, but fought on anyway.  “I just wanted to say: if you need anybody to talk to, about the decision you have to make…I’m here for you, man.  I went through the whole thing a lot more recently than either Ben or Amanda, you know.  So I might have a different perspective then the old-timers do.”

Startled, James had to work hard to contain the sudden urge of anger he felt—oh, yes.  Here was yet another person who had known the truth and failed to tell him.  Funny, how he’d managed to forget that, right up until this very instant.  He crossed his arms over his chest.  “You knew all along, too.”

“Yes.  Of course I did.”

“Are you going to tell me that you tried to convince Ben to tell me, too?”

“No.  Wouldn’t be true.  I never told him anything of the kind, James.”  Richie shook his head.  “I _did_ tell him to go ahead and make a move on you, of course.  I didn’t know you were already taken, and it seemed to me that the only way to get Ben out of the moony-eyed funk he was in over you was to actually give it a try and see what happened.  But if it had been up to me?”  He sighed, wearily.  “You never would have found out about Immortality at all until it happened to you.  His _or_ yours.”   

This was surprising enough that James lowered his arms.  “Why not?”

“Because.  Like I said.  I’ve been through it a lot more recently than either Ben or Amanda.  And I definitely wouldn’t have wanted anyone to have told _me_.”  Richie’s lip twisted painfully.  “Oh, if you’d asked me during the first year or so after I died…hell, yeah, I would have said that I would have wanted to know.  But I figured out how stupid that was pretty quick.  Knowing would have ruined completely ruined my last mortal years.  And mortal years are precious, James.  Trust me.”  He smiled tightly.  “I only got nineteen of ‘em.”

“Richie,” James breathed.

“Don’t look like that.  It hasn’t been all bad, being Immortal,” Richie said.  “It’s way better than the alternative, a lot of people would say.  I don’t know.  Maybe it is, maybe it’s not.  But the thing is—the second you become Immortal, you become a completely different person.  Oh, me and that mortal kid who died in ‘93 still have lots in common.  Mostly, we even use the same name.  But we’re not the same people.  And we sure as hell don’t live in the same universe.  You need to be prepared for that.”  He cleared this throat.  “That said, if you _do_ decide to join us, and you need someone to help you, uh, get up over that final hill—just call me.  I know lots of ways to make it quick and clean.  Or I’d be happy to just stand by and keep you company while you do it yourself, if you’d like.  It can be, um, kinda scary going through your first death on your own.  Lonely, too.” 

_I do believe,_ James thought, in a dazed kind of way, _that this young man just offered to kill me.  And rather than it being a joke or a threat of violence, it was actually one of the most generous, selfless offers anyone has ever made me.  God.  What kind of freaky alternate universe have I stepped into?_  “If I do decide that way, I’ll remember your offer,” James said softly.  “But I’m not in any hurry to make up my mind, Richie.”

“Good,” Richie said.  “That’s as it should be.  I guess I’ve just got one more thing for you to consider before I go, then.”  He fidgeted slightly.  “Look, I’ve never been a Teacher.  You would probably be better off going with someone with a few more centuries under their belt, like Amanda or Mac.  But, just so you know--I’d take you on as a student in a heartbeat.  I’d teach you everything I know about using a sword, and I wouldn’t toss you out on your own until you were really ready to go.  None of this ‘the student must leave the Teacher the second he takes his first head’ crap.  I—”  He hesitated.  The next words came out as a rush.  “You won’t have to go through any of this by yourself, James.  Not unless you want to.” 

Once again, the pure selflessness of the offer overwhelmed James.  He started to speak—and saw, that in addition to having gone quite red in the neck, Richie’s fidgets had become outright squirms, all clear signs of a Manly Man Treading Terrifyingly Close to Discussing Feelings. (James knew these signs well, as Jeremy tended to exhibit them at least twice a day.) Rather than try to say what he really felt, James switched to soothing, non-threatening, I’m-incredibly-touched-but-I’m-not-going-to embarrass-either-of-us-by-saying-so-aloud Manly Brusque Mode.  “Thank you, Richie.  I’ll keep that in mind, too.”

It was the right choice.  Richie looked incredibly relieved.  “Do that,” he said.  “Well.  Meter’s running.”  As if his words had cued it, the cab outside honked its horn.  Richie rolled his eyes.  “Gotta go,” he said.  “Call us if you hear anything about Amanda or Ben, James.  And either Joe or I will call you the second we land in Geneva, okay?  Just so you know we got in safe.”

“I’d appreciate that.” 

Richie opened the door and started to go down the walk.  James watched him go, trying to suppress the odd feeling that he was never going to see the kid again.  It was ridiculous, of course.  James was nothing but a crazy old fool.  But he felt it anyway, and as Richie reached the sidewalk, James called out to stop him.  “Richie?”

“Yes, James?”

“You—uh—you said they were just pretty stories, the things you told yourself after a…after a you-know,” James answered, painfully aware that they could be overhead.  “The ones about justice and protecting people.  And maybe that’s true, when it comes to most Im—most people in your situation.  But I’ll never believe that it’s true about you.”  He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, intensely missing the comforting feeling of his crystal beneath his fingertips.  “I just wanted you to know that.”

Richie’s smile was heartbreaking.  “Yeah, well, my first Teacher had some pretty high ideals,” he said.  “I fall short of them, almost each and every day.  But I keep trying.  Thanks, man.”  He opened the door of the cab, which was already revving its engine impatiently.  “Take care, James.  Either Joe or I will call you tonight.” And he got into the cab and drove away.

James watched the cab until it had disappeared around the corner, then went back into the house and locked up, unable to quite discern how he felt.  He was intensely worried for Amanda and Ben, that he knew.  But he also felt strangely comforted, knowing that he wasn’t the only one.  It was good to know that Richie and Joe were out there looking, and would keep him appraised.  “One way or another, one of them will call this evening,” he told himself.  And repeated it like a mantra, several times throughout the day.

Only neither Richie nor Dawson called that night.

***  
They didn’t call the next morning, either, or at any time during the next day.  By ten o-clock the following evening, when a trying-very-hard-not-to-be-worried James decided to call Richie instead, all he got was a “We’re sorry.  The subscriber you have dialed has moved beyond the service area.  Please try your call again” message for his pains.  The same thing happened whenever James tried to get Dawson.  Seriously panicked, James both calls several more times, only to get the same message.  Until the following morning, when he suddenly got a “We’re sorry.  The number you have dialed is no longer in service” message from both numbers instead. 

“It’s all right, James,” Richard said soothingly, when James had both him and Jeremy on conference call that night.  “Probably their phones just got stolen by a pickpocket—it happens in airports a lot, you know.  I’m sure the phone company just cancelled their service because of that.  And, y’know, they lost your contact info with their phones, so they couldn’t let you know.”  But not even Richard sounded like he believed it.

Jeremy took a different tack.  “James,” he said simply.  “Do you need us to come home?”

“I—“  James hesitated.  The truth was, he _did_ need them to come home.  If they couldn’t help him make sense of any of this strangeness, at least they could keep him from going completely off the rails while he fruitlessly attempted to do it for himself.  But that wasn’t the way their lives worked.  “No,” he said finally.  “I’d like you here, of course.  But—we’re starting on the monkey bike episode of The Reassembler tomorrow.  Then the Dansette Bermuda.  And then it’ll be time to meet you two at the airport so we can fly to Namibia.” He laughed bitterly.  “There’s not really much any of us can do, is there?  I mean, I’m half tempted to fly to Geneva myself—but once there, what would I do?  Go to the police?  Start accosting random strangers in the street, asking if they’d seen a goth-looking kid and a grey-haired man with a cane?  Or a man and a woman who both carry swords?”  Silence answered him.  “Right,” James said.  “That’s pretty much what I thought, too.  I’m utterly useless, aren’t I.”

“As a condom machine in a convent,” Jeremy agreed.

“Jeremy!” Richard protested.

“Well, it’s true,” Jeremy said.  “There’s nothing you _can_ do but wait, James.  And I know how hard that is. But it’s the truth.”  He was quiet for a minute.  When he spoke again, his voice was compassionate in a way Jeremy’s rarely was.  “Look, we’ll all be together again on Monday, James.  We’ll figure something out then.  All right?”

James doubted it.  But he understood the words for what they were…as close to an “I’m sorry.  I love you.  Hang in there,” as Jeremy was willing to risk, talking on the phone in place where he could easily be overheard.  “All right,” he said.  “Until Monday, then.”

“Until Monday,” Jeremy echoed, and hung up.

“Until Monday,” Richard agreed.  “Fuck.  I miss you two.  James—hang in there. Try not to worry too much.” And he hung up as well.

James did his best.  But Monday, when he came home after a very long day of filming in the Reassembler’s borrowed shed, James found a small bubble mailer stuck in his mail slot.  His singularly inattentive postman had attempted to shove it through the door along with everything else, and it had gotten stuck. 

It took James way longer than it should have to get it _un_ -stuck, and the unfortunate Tesco’s circular that had gotten trapped alongside it was mangled beyond recognition in the process.  James didn’t spare that a second thought, however.  The handwriting on the mailer was clearly hurried, slightly blurred where the ink had smudged before it had a chance to dry, but even so it was remarkably similar to the writing on the note Dawson had shown him last week.  Amanda? James hurried inside, heedless of the other mail he heard crunching under his boots.  He ripped the mailer open as he went.

And a crystal spilled into his hand.

Not just any crystal.  This fragment was Amanda’s.  James had never seen it before. Amanda hadn’t had it with her in Johannesburg, or if she had, she’d kept it well out of James’s sight.  But she had mentioned how, after Rebecca’s death, she’d paid a jeweler to set the crystal into a gold necklace for her, so she could wear it over her heart in remembrance of her Teacher.  And this crystal was set in just such a way, the gold skillfully fashioned around the crystal’s uneven base.  James quickly peered into the mailer, hoping to find some kind of note.

There was none.  Just the hastily written address on the package and an even more hastily filled in customs form, written in...Turkish? Yes, the postmark was from Istanbul, though just how or why Amanda had ended up there was an utter mystery.  But the envelope wasn’t quite empty.  When James turned the envelope upside down and shook it, a long gold chain spilled out.  It matched the pendant perfectly, so James’s first thought was that the clasp had accidently come open in transit.  When his neatness-loving mind automatically tried to restore the situation, though, slipping the pendant back onto the chain and attempting to do up the clasp, he found that he couldn’t.  Because the clasp wasn’t just unfastened—it was broken.  Snapped free of the chain completely, as if Amanda had been in too much of a hurry to bother undoing it at all, and had just yanked the necklace free from her neck instead.

Or maybe as if someone else had done it for her.


	9. Chapter 9

Namibia was…

There were no adequate words for everything Namibia was.  Breathtaking.  Stunning.  Endless.  Huge.  James, standing on the top of one gigantic dune—an endless ocean of water to one side of him, an endless ocean of sand to the other—tried all of those words on, and still couldn’t decide on one that fit.  One could never, as Jeremy would eventually say in his voice-over for the episode, forget that the Namib Desert was essentially a giant orange killing machine.  It reminded James quite a bit of the terrifying splendor of the Arctic, actually.  But where James had spent most of his time in the Arctic with his eyes pointed downward, attempting NOT to get absorbed into the landscape’s lethal beauty, here it…beckoned him.  Especially now, with the sun going down, painting both sand and sky in brilliant shades of gold and pink.  The sheer size and grandeur of the emptiness forced him to look at it.  To step outside of himself.  To think. 

To contemplate eternity.

“James?”  Richard’s voice was tentative, as if he feared he was disturbing something private.  James couldn’t blame him.  He was sure that everything about his body language was communicating “fuck off” loud and clear.  It was the first quiet moment he’d really had to himself since they’d left England, after all.  And after three straight days of driving and filming with very little sleep, James was more than ready for some alone time, and had climbed this dune by himself in order to find it.  But, judging from the apologetic look on Richard’s face, he wasn’t going to get it yet.  “Sorry,” Richard said softly now, confirming it.  “We need to get at least a few more shots of us eating Jeremy’s fish on the beach and then snoring under the dune buggies before we quit for the day.  But after that the crew will clear out and leave us on our own to sleep.”

James nodded.  He silently made the laborious return trip down the sand, walking in Richard’s crumbling footprints.

For the next hour or so, James actually felt somewhat human.  The circle of dune buggies gathered ‘round their driftwood campfire felt very comforting, ridiculous-looking as Richard’s and Jeremy’s were.  And filming the scenes of them all eating and bickering felt safe and familiar, things the three of them had filmed dozens of times before.  But when they were finished, and the crew left for their own camp about a mile up the beach, the illusion of familiarity shattered.  The night was just so _quiet_.  And beautiful as they were, there was something about the stars coming out that made the strange landscape seem even more alien than it already had. 

James knew he wasn’t the only one who felt it.  Both Jeremy and Richard were abnormally quiet as Jeremy broke out a flask filled with bourbon and began passing it around.  They drank in silence for quite some time, leaning together in a line against Jeremy’s buggy, backs gratefully absorbing the warmth that lingered in its purple-metallic-flake painted frame as the evening chill truly began to fall.  But just because they were quiet didn’t mean they weren’t communicating anyway—Richard and Jeremy especially, who kept exchanging worried looks so blatant they might as well have shouted instead.  When Jeremy finally got up to toss another bit of driftwood on the fire, James wasn’t at all surprised to hear him speak.  “James,” he said.  “Amanda’s crystal couldn’t have been a message from a kidnapper.  Someone would have contacted you demanding ransom long before now, if it were.”

“I know.”  James did, too.  He honestly hadn’t ever really believed that it was.  The handwriting on the little envelope had to have been Amanda’s…and why would an abductor make Amanda write out James’s address?  Still.  Holding the crystal in his hand had reminded him too much of a scene he’d seen in a dozen bad movies: the one where the family of a kidnapping victim opened an innocuous looking package on their kitchen table, only to discover that it contained one of their loved one’s shoes, or a lock of their hair.  “Unless there’s no point in asking for ransom,” he said aloud.  “Because whoever took her has already taken her head.”

“James!”  Richard had decided to switch from alcohol to tea, and was putting their well-battered travel kettle, veteran of half a dozen special episodes, near the fire to heat.  He almost dropped it now, face aghast.  “You don’t really think that.  Do you?”

“Honestly?  No.”  James shook his head.  He wrapped his long arms around his legs, pulling them up tight against his chest.  “No.  I think Amanda sent me the crystal to keep it safe, the same way she sent the book to Joe.  But that really doesn’t make me feel much better.”

“Why not?”

“You heard the way Amanda talked about her Teacher, Richard.  The only way she would ever give up the crystal Rebecca gave her was if she genuinely thought it was safer with me.  And that frightens me, gentlemen.  Any situation where Amanda would think I could do a better job of protecting the crystal than she could frightens me a lot.”  He lowered his face, resting his chin grimly on his knees.  “Besides.  There’s that broken chain to consider.”

Almost subconsciously, Richard reached up to touch his neck.  There had been a brief argument between Jeremy and Richard over who would carry this new, third crystal, when James had first shown it to them. Richard had swiftly won it by saying “Rock necklaces are much more my style than yours, mate”, something Jeremy had found inarguable.  So now Jeremy carried a single crystal in his pocket, while Richard carried the second in his pocket and wore Amanda’s on a dark leather thong around his neck.  James had caught him fingering it several times over the last few days, touching it gently through the thin fabric of his ridiculous African Explorer’s Shirt (TM).  He did so now, sliding his fingers from thong to chest.  “Women _do_ break necklaces from time to time, James.”

“Women like Amanda?  Women who have spent multiple lifetimes picking pockets and cracking safes?  You saw how skilled she was with her hands when she took the phonograph apart, Richard.  The circumstances which would cause _Amanda_ to actually break that clasp frighten me even more than her deciding the crystal was safer with me. So, no.  Amanda may not have been kidnapped.  But she’s definitely in trouble.  I think Ben and Richie and Dawson are, too.  Or one of them would have called me long before now.  And you know what the very worst part is?  Unless the two of you can come up with something I haven’t, there isn’t…one…single…thing I can do about it.”  James stared into the fire bleakly.   “Not one single fucking thing.”

Quiet descended, Richard and Jeremy exchanging more of those obnoxiously loud worried glances.  Finally, Jeremy sighed, took one more long swig of the bourbon, and then screwed the lid resolutely back on the flask and placed it upright in the sand.  “No,” he agreed.  “You’re right.  Not one single fucking thing.  But there’s lots of things that happen in the world that you and I can do nothing about, James.  War.  Famine.  Disease.  The complete inability of the Japanese to design a voice-activated GPS system that knows what to do with a British voice.”  Almost against his will, James snorted.  Jeremy looked relieved for a moment, then sobered.  “Look, James.  I understand that what might be happening to your friends is a lot more personal than that.  And of course you’re upset and worried.  But…you’re generally the best of us about not letting things you can’t do anything about get you down.”  Richard left the fire and sat down on James’s other side, nodding emphatically.  “So…something else is bothering you,” Jeremy continued.  “Am I right?”

“Something besides you thinking bad Japanese voice recognition is the equivalent of the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse?” James snarked almost reflexively, then softened.  “No.  All right.  Yes, I guess there is.”  He ducked his head shyly.  “Been pretty obvious, has it?”

Richard rolled his eyes.  “Pretty,” he said.  “Everyone’s been noticing, James.  Dan even called Jeremy last week, wanting to know if there’d been a sudden death in your family.  Otherwise, he was going to recommend that you go on a course of antidepressants ASAP.”

The mention of The Reassembler’s producer made James squirm uncomfortably.  “I did rather let the team down, those last few eps,” he said.  “Went on a twenty-minute rant about what a bitch getting old was, and how I’d never honestly expected it to happen to me.  Not exactly the cheery, upbeat family programming Reassembler fans—though it still astonishes me that there _are_ any Reassembler fans at all--have come to expect.  I just hope there’s enough footage left to make a complete episode after Dan cuts it all out.”

“He’d be a fool if he does,” Jeremy said staunchly.  “Cut it down, maybe, but not out.  People tune into that show to see _you,_ James.  If you’re having a bad day, the best thing you can do is just be honest and go with it.  Your fans will end up loving you even more.” 

James blinked.  Jeremy patted his hand.  “But I have to agree with the insightful Mr. Lewis.  For James May to be having a bad day when he’s playing with screws and gears is just plain _wrong_.  Unnatural.  A crime against both man and God.  So what’s wrong, James?  What’s been…” He paused, clearly searching for a word.  “…hurting you so badly?  Not that everything that’s been happening with Amanda and the rest of Team Immortality isn’t more than enough.  But…”

“It’s not that,” James interrupted.  “At least, not entirely.”  He heaved a gusty sigh, holding up his forefinger.  “My finger got infected, that’s all.”

Instantly, the two other men were craning their necks to get a look at it, something that was next to impossible in the firelight.  James lowered his hand with a laugh.  “No, no, it’s all right now,” he said.  “I don’t even have to wear a plaster anymore.  But was bad enough that the doctor gave me an antibiotic shot, instead of relying on pills or creams or such.  And I had to keep it wrapped the whole time I was working on the Reassembler.”

“I’m not surprised,” Richard said testily.  “The number of times people made you cut into it to prove you weren’t Immortal? God, and we were overseas, too.  No telling what sort of weird foreign germs took the opportunity to crawl in.  I’m amazed one shot was all it took.”  He touched James’s finger gently, a completely non-sexual gesture that James nonetheless found incredibly erotic.  “Must have driven you nuts, James.  I hate working on anything mechanical with a plaster on.  Always makes me feel clumsier than a cat on ice.”

“Yes,” James nodded, relieved that Richard, at least, understood the sheer frustration of having to work with one’s fingers bandaged, of having one’s normal dexterity and sensitivity dulled.  “’Nuts’ is a mild word for it.  Doing that sort of work, I couldn’t ever forget it was there…I was aware of the wrap all the time, even when the cut itself had healed enough to stop hurting.  And it…well.”  He laughed bitterly.  “It just made it so obvious that this was the sort of future I had to look forward to.  If not cuts and scrapes, then arthritis, you know? Not to mention the way my eyesight keeps fading. Eventually, the day will come when I can’t even hold a screwdriver at all, let alone see the screw.”  He curled his hand into a fist.  “Unless.”

An awkward silence fell.  Jeremy slowly got to his feet.  Hands in his pockets, he took a few steps toward the fire, looking about as lost as Jeremy Clarkson ever got.  But when he spoke, there wasn’t any confusion in his voice.  Nor anger.  Just calm, gentle love.  “Ah,” he said.  “I was wondering when we were going to talk about this.”

The calm set James seriously aback.  A moment later, he was cursing himself for the being the stupid cock he genuinely was.  He’d let himself get sucked into thinking he was the only one wrestling with his possible future Immortality, all the impossible consequences and terrors of his choice.  But of course, he hadn’t been.  Jeremy and Richard must have been wrestling right there with him, all along.  “You have,” he said, just to confirm it.  Both his beloveds nodded.  “Why didn’t either of you say something sooner?”

“You’re not exactly the easiest person to push into conversation, mate,” Richard answered.  “When you’re ready to talk about something, you talk.  Not before.”  He, too, got to his feet.  They’d left their various bedrolls and sleeping bags arranged under the buggies, where they’d been filmed earlier, taking their separate sleeps.  Now Richard started collecting them, unzipping and layering and blending them all together to make one big bed by the fire.  It was a task that Richard always accomplished with amazing skill—somehow, through some magic known only to him, the combined bedding would always become both larger and softer than any of its component parts, long enough to accommodate Jeremy’s extra-long frame as well as provide comfortable support all of their aging backs.  When he finished, Richard stretched out and patted the bed in invitation, and James joined him on it with absolutely no hesitation at all.  “You’re facing an overwhelmingly big decision, James,” Richard said when James had, snuggling up comfortably to James’s back.  “We figured you’d need some time to process it all.”

“Yes, well, thanks,” James answered.  “But I _haven’t_ processed it.  I don’t even know where to begin.” 

Jeremy sniffed disdainfully.  “What?  You haven’t?  I’m shocked,” he said.  “I was sure you would have it all worked out by now.  With a couple of flow charts showing all the pros and cons for me and Richard, just in case we couldn’t follow your logic.  I mean, it’s only life and death we’re talking about, after all.  Shift over, you two.”  Obediently, James and Richard moved aside, leaving the middle of the bedroll for Jeremy.  Jeremy settled in, sighing blissfully as his tired body stretched out, then held out an arm to each of them.  They laid back down, one on each side. “Seriously, James,” Jeremy said, and he actually did sound serious now, almost frighteningly so.  “This…this _choice_ …it’s nothing any of us were prepared to face.  No one ever is, according to Amanda.  She, er, she made it plain to Richard and me that it’s driven people stark raving bonkers in the past.  She seemed to feel really bad that the crystals put you in the position of knowing about it at all.”

“I know,” James agreed.  “Ben made that plain to me, as well.”

“So,” Richard said, speaking up from Jeremy’s other side.   “Getting a bit broody over an infected cut is nothing, mate.  Neither is taking a few weeks or months to think. Or years.”

“Agreed,” Jeremy said.  “Richard and I talked about it, James, and we decided that we weren’t going to push you to talk about it until you were ready.  I mean, you’ve always been a bit …unique…when it comes to your mental processes anyway.  God only knows what the fate of the world will be if we drive you completely ‘round the twist.”  James stifled a laugh.  Jeremy squeezed him closer.  “And when you _are_ ready, we also decided that we’re not going to tell you what we think you should do,” he finished.  “Even though…well.  Even though we both have strong opinions.  But we’re not going to share them with you, unless you ask.”

“That’s…”  James considered this.  “That’s incredibly considerate.  Thank you.”  He rolled onto his side, pushed himself up on his elbow so he could see the other two men’s faces.  “I won’t ask you to tell me what you think I should do,” he said.  “Not yet, at least.  But I would like to know what each of you think _you_ would do.  If it were you instead of me.”

Richard shivered unhappily.  “I honestly don’t know,” he said.  “On the whole, I’m glad it isn’t me.  Because I _don’t_ know what I’d do.”

Jeremy smiled ferally, his teeth gleaming in the campfire light.  “Well, I bloody well do,” he said.  “If it had been me, I’d have had one of you shoot me in the head the moment Kate explained what was what.  Have a chance at living forever?  Sign me up!” 

Both James and Richard broke out into startled laughter.  It was just such a Jeremy thing to say.  Jeremy grinned at them unapologetically for a moment.  Then his smile faded.  “The things is,” he finished quietly, “that was just my first impulse.  And if I’d followed it, I’ve have been making the same mistake I always do—the one where I forget that I’m a sad, used up old man now, not the young stud I was a few decades back.  ‘Cause if I still was that man…if someone had told me I was pre-Immortal in 2002, say…”

“Oh, my god,” James said reverently, suddenly awed by the mental image of Jeremy as he’d first known him: young, strong, curly-haired, convinced the entire world was his for the taking and more often than not being exactly right.  “If you’d become Immortal in 2002…bloody Nora, Jeremy.  You wouldn’t have just ended up running the most successful TV show in history.  You’d have run for Parliament.  Then become Prime Minster.  And then you’d have taken over the entire damn _world.”_

_“_ Exactly.”  Jeremy smiled smugly for a moment, clearly imagining the possibilities.  Then he sighed.  “But I’m not him any longer.”

“You are,” Richard said earnestly, sitting up in his eagerness to make Jeremy see his sincerity.  “You always will be, Jez.”

Jeremy just shook his head sadly.  “Thanks, Hamster.  But there’s no point in pretending,” he said.  “Of course I still am, in my head.  Or at least all the so-called wisdom and experience I’ve gathered along the way makes up for whatever mental gears are starting to slow down.  But it can’t be denied that my body’s just about ready for the rubbish heap.”  He pushed himself up onto his elbows too, looking at James face to face.  “I took Amanda aside, you know, when we were still in South Africa.  Tried to pin her down on exactly what happened to someone who became Immortal at your age, James.  I wanted to find out just what Immortality could and couldn’t fix.”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t get very many encouraging answers,” Jeremy answered.  “As near as I can figure out, becoming Immortal only cures whatever just killed you.  It doesn’t fix any of the damage that happened before that.  Amanda says it’s like getting frozen in time.  Not in a moment, but more like in a day.  The body starts living through the same day over and over again, eternally caught in one circadian cycle.  And then resets to the beginning of that cycle whenever it ‘dies’.”

“That’s…that’s absolutely fascinating,” James said.  He too sat up, mind whirring.  “That explains why Immortals still need haircuts and manicures, then.  Hair and fingernails grow at night…but then they become dead tissue, so they wouldn’t reset along with the rest of the body.  Maybe that explains why Immortals are supposedly infertile, too.  Sperm cells take a lot longer than just one day to mature.  So do ovum.”  He frowned.  “Does Amanda still have monthly periods?  Did you ask her?”

“James,” Jeremy said, with remarkable patience.  “Even assuming that I’d thought of that, I know better than to ask a woman about her lady-times.  Especially one that carries a sword.”  James nodded, acknowledging the justice of this.  “Anyway,” Jeremy said, “the point is this—when you become Immortal, you keep the body you already have.  It doesn’t get any older…but it doesn’t get any younger, either.  You’re stuck in the day you were living when you died.  So.  After I gave it some more thought, I realized my answer would have to be different.”  He relaxed back onto his back, eyes lifted to the stars.  “Even if the Game wasn’t an issue, even if I never had to talk my creaky back into hefting a sword--I’m long past the point where I want to keep living in this body forever, James.  And I’m especially past the point where I’d want to keep living in it without the two of you.”

There was a long silence.  Then Richard nodded solemnly.  He laid back down as well, pillowing his head on one of Jeremy’s outstretched arms.  “Yes,” he said.  “That’s it exactly.”

“What’s it exactly, Richard?” James asked.

“The reason why I wouldn’t want to become Immortal, either.” Richard’s hand gestured helplessly up at the stars.  “I mean, I’m a bit younger, so I suppose theoretically I would do better in the Game than either of you old blokes—but I’m starting to feel my years, too.  Besides, even if I was still a pup, the Game doesn’t really sound like my thing. Don’t think I could ever get used to cutting off someone’s head in cold blood.”  Richard shivered a little, and James found himself nodding—no, he didn’t think Richard could, either.  He was by far the softest-hearted of their threesome.  “I don’t think I’d like what happened when I couldn’t hide that I wasn’t aging anymore, either,” Richard continued softly.  “Can’t imagine what it would be like not to work in television, to have to go underground until people finally forgot what Richard Hammond looked like.  But those are just…I dunno, surface problems.  They aren’t really the heart of the matter.”  He shrugged.  “The real heart of it is:  I wouldn’t want to live without you two, either.”

“Hammond.  Don’t say that.”  Jeremy’s voice was ferociously tender.  His hand reached up to stroke Richard’s dark hair.  “You’re the youngest.  Unless you do something stupid that gets you killed early, you’re _going_ to have to live without us—well, without me at least--one day.” He snorted.  “Hell. What with all that granola-eating and fitness cycling you do, you’ll probably outlive me by decades.”

“Yeah, but.” Richard protested.  “That’s different, Jez.  That’s just…just me marking time.  Hanging in there for my girls and doing the best I can until the inevitable happens and we’re together again.  It’s not facing centuries and centuries of life on my own.”  He shrugged again.  “That, I don’t think I could do.  Once, maybe, when Top Gear was just beginning.  Before we’d become what we are.  But not now.  Not anymore.”

James stood up.  He walked through the little circle of haphazardly-parked dune buggies until he’d passed the last bare flicker of campfire light and was alone in the darkness, with nothing but stars overhead, nothing but cooling sand beneath his feet.  His beloveds didn’t leave him there for long, though.  A few minutes later, James heard quiet footsteps, then felt Jeremy’s hand, heavy but gentle, on his shoulder.  “James,” he said quietly, so quiet that his voice didn’t disturb the silent night at all.  “It’s…it’s easy for us to say what decision we might make, when we’re not the ones who actually have to make it.  God, the two of us must sound as naïve as the stupid teenagers who think dying for each other like Romeo and Juliet is actually romantic, instead of imbecilic.  It’s the easiest thing in the world to say we wouldn’t want to live without each other when we honestly don’t have any other options.  But you…”  He hesitated, then grasped James with more force.  “You have a chance to see the most amazing things, James.  Just think of driving a 24th century car.  Or taking a vacation on the moon.  I mean…god knows, maybe in a few hundred years your horrible taste in clothes will actually be in fashion.  We’re not going to stop you if you want to try to see it.”

“No,” Richard said.  “We won’t.”

“Yes, well,” James said.  “That’s the thing, isn’t it, gents?”  Not looking at the other two, eyes still resolutely focused on the stars, he carefully stretched both his hands out behind him.  Instantly, Jeremy released his shoulder to grasp one.  A second later, James felt Richard seize the other.  “I really don’t want to see what shape the world is in a few hundred years from now, either,” he said softly.  “Not without the two of you.” 

There was a brief silence while the other two men let this sink in.  Then Richard, his voice full of cautious hope, said tentatively: “So you’ve decided, then?  You’re going to stay…like us?”

Against his will, James heard himself chuckle.  “I’ve never really been _like you,_ Richard,” he said.  “I’ve always just been like me.  But yes.  I’m going to do my best to stay mortal.”  He dropped his head far back on his shoulders, taking in the unfamiliar southern constellations.  “Jeremy once said that we three had been more fortunate than 99.9 percent of the people on the planet.  But I really think he was wrong.  I think I’ve been luckier with my mortality than _any_ man that’s ever lived.  And I’m happy with that.  Don’t think I’ll trade in the miracles I already have for the non-existent chance that there might be something better later on.  I mean, really.”  He nodded his head at the sky.  “Think about the things we’ve done, the things we’ve seen.  Think about where we are standing right now.  There _couldn’t_ be anything better than this.”

More silence.  Then Richard said, more tentatively still: “I agree, James.  But…the choice might get taken out of your hands.”

“If my plane crashes, or I get hit by a bus, or if I meet my end in any of a million other sudden and unlikely ways,” James recited with a sigh.  “I know, Richard.  All I can say is: if it happens, if Immortality ends up reaching out and choosing me, we’ll cope with it then.  But I’m not going to go seeking it on my own.”

“That means you’ll get old, James.”  Jeremy’s voice was sharp.  “Old and sick both.  There’s a lot worse than infected fingers waiting for you, down the line.  And then one day, you’ll die.”

“I know,” James answered.  He gave both men’s hands a gentle squeeze.  “But first I’ll have lived exactly the way I wanted to, with the people I wanted to.  And how many men can say that?”

***

“Err, Jeremy? James?” Richard’s voice, crackling over the car-to-car radio, was shaky and distorted.  Even so, his discomfort came across loud and clear.  “I, um, I met up with some locals.  I could use a bit of advice…”

They’d left the vast sands of the Namib desert far behind, and had been travelling Namibia’s scenic highways for days.  Richard’s buggy had broken down about half an hour before, so they’d separated, James and Jeremy driving on with the majority of the crew while Richard fixed his vehicle.  But when Richard’s plaintive words came over the radio, Jeremy abruptly pulled off the road.  James did likewise, listening to Jeremy’s curt “Unfriendlies?” with a sinking heart.  Argentina may have happened more than three years ago, now.  But it was never far from any of their minds.

“Errr, no,” Richard said, and James frowned—he could practically hear Richard’s blush, even over the radio.  “Not unfriendly at all.  Quite the opposite, in fact.”  His voice lowered.  “That’s, erm, that’s kind of the whole problem?”

“Is that singing I hear?” James said blankly.  In front of him, Jeremy got out of his buggy and strode to the closest crew van, where there were monitors that would show him everything they were currently filming in Richard’s location.  Jeremy stared for a second.  Then he started to laugh.

James hurried to join him.  Then he, too, began to laugh helplessly.  Richard’s locals turned out to be four quite lovely Namibian ladies, dressed in the height of local tribal elegance:  long skirts, lots of beaded chokers and bracelets, and not much else.  The four ladies were, in fact, completely bare-breasted, and were all flirting shamelessly with Richard.  They surrounded him in a tight-semi-circle, curious hands reaching out to touch his pale skin.  This was causing Richard no end of difficulty, as he attempted to smile and reciprocate their attention politely without actually looking at the women—and their disturbingly eye-level breasts-- at all.  “Oh dear god, he looks like he’s _drowning,”_ Jeremy said to James, and then spoke into the radio.  “What’s the matter, Hammond? Having a hard time figuring out where to aim your eyes?”

“Give me a break,” Richard said testily.  “You know it’s been forever since I last saw a topless women that wasn’t on pay-per-view.”  And at that Jeremy, James, and the rest of the crew lost it completely, Jeremy laughing so hard he bent nearly double.  Their hilarity increased still further when the ladies began a spirited dance, three of their number clapping and singing while a fourth began to spin and jump in a most distracting way.  “God,” James quipped, sarcasm not quite hiding his awe.  “Leave it to Hammond to still be The Housewife’s Favorite, even in the middle of Namibia.”  And Jeremy had to sit down on the van’s bumper to avoid falling over completely.

Eventually, however, the ladies—who, despite the multiple barriers of language and culture, seemed to know exactly what effect they were having, and were just as amused as everyone else—tired of tormenting Richard.  They moved on, as did the crowd that had gathered around the monitors.   The crew went back to the vans and various other support vehicles; James and Jeremy returned to their buggies.  But just as he was getting seated, the radio once again crackled into life.  “Did you enjoy our dance, short man?” said a female voice.  It was heavily accented, but still quite clear and easy to understand.

“Oh!  Oh, you do speak English,” Richard said.  “Er, yes.  I did. Very nice.  Very, ah, athletic.”

“Not all of us speak English.  Only me,” answered the lady.  Her voice dropped into a flirtatious purr that would have given Amanda a run for her money.  “My Grandfather sent me to give you something, you see.”

“Oh,” said Richard, sounding completely at sea.  “Well, that’s very nice of him.  Is he a fan of our show?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh.  Right.”   For a second Richard seemed speechless.  And then a light seemed to dawn.  “Grandfather,” he repeated.  “Oh. _Oh._ Isn’t that what the, um, working ladies hereabouts call their…their…”

_Oh good god,_ thought James, who knew his beloved well enough to have realized exactly where his mind had gone.  _Please don’t say “pimps” out loud, Richard.  Please.  Just don’t..._

But the lady seemed to take no offense.  She just laughed merrily.  “You make the wrong assumptions, short man,” she said.  “In this case, ‘grandfather’ merely means…grandfather.  Although I will admit the title is purely honorary.  He is very old, and he has watched over me for a very long time, just as he watches over all the unmarried girls and women in our tribe.  It is his penance.”  Her voice lowered.  “He sent me to give you this.”

There was a long beat of silence.  James turned, looked back to meet Jeremy’s eyes—Jeremy looked puzzled, but not particularly alarmed.  Then they heard Richard say, voice strained almost to breaking:  “ _Where did you get this???”_

“My grandfather’s web is wide,” said the lady, unperturbed.  “It catches many things.  Information, especially.”  She lowered her voice to a whisper.  James could still hear it, though, each and every word.  Was the lady whispering directly into Richard’s radio?  “He says to tell your husband—the funny looking one with the flower shirts--not to worry, short man.  His friends?  The ancient one, the limping one, the young one, and the lady thief?  They are well.  Treachery is afoot…they have been taken, and are being held against their will…but they are whole and safe.  You will find them soon.”

“ _Where_?”  Richard demanded, his voice a shrill hiss.  “Where are they?”

“At Abeni’s Heart.” 

“Where is that?  _What_ is that?”

“I dare not say more,” the lady answered.  “One of my grandfather’s least trust-worthy descendants is amongst you.  Take care when you prepare for sleep, short man, as he may well be hiding in the blankets, ready to bite.  Trust no one who does not already hold your heart completely.”  There was a short silence, then the lady resumed speaking in a more normal tone.  “My grandfather will come to you soon.  Watch for him.”

And that was all. 

James waited for what seemed a very long time, waiting for either Richard or the mysterious dancing lady to speak again.  Finally, Richard did.  “She’s gone,” he said softly. “James.  Jeremy.  Did you hear all that?”

“Yes,” James answered quickly.  “Richard, what did she…”

But he was cut off.  At some point, Jeremy had gotten out of his buggy and approached James; James had been so intent on the radio that he’d missed it completely.  Consequently, he jumped about a foot when Jeremy’s large hand suddenly covered his and hit the radio’s mute button.  “No,” he said.  “Don’t ask him what she gave him.  All of this is being recorded, remember.  And apparently, someone very untrustworthy is amongst us.”  James nodded, chastened.  Jeremy thumbed the radio on.  “Richard, we’re about an hour from the big game preserve,” he said.  “Are you good if we continue on?  We can talk about—“ And here he hesitated, and James could tell he was picking out words carefully, for both the crew and their potential future Amazon-Prime watching masses:  “—your strange ability to attract barking mad fans anywhere on earth when you meet us there tonight.  I mean, really.  Did she actually call James your _husband?”_

It hurt.  Oh, James knew exactly why Jeremy had said it.  Making a joke out of it was the best way, the only way, really, to smooth the unfortunate word over.  To keep their true relationship from being suspected by the crew.  Still, hearing Jeremy speak so derisively made something in his heart twinge.  Richard hesitated a beat, and James knew he was reacting in exactly the same way.  But when he spoke, he sounded jovial enough.  “I dunno, I was hoping it was just one of those little bobbles non-native English speakers make,” he said.  “Who knows, maybe the local word for ‘husband’ just means ‘irritating bastard who follows me everywhere.’ In which case, she would be absolutely dead-on right.”

“They hold remarkable wisdom, indigenous cultures,” James agreed, perfectly deadpan.

“Dear god.  If just being followed around by irritating bastards made you married, I’d have been a polygamist for years,” Jeremy said lightly…but it sounded forced.  His real worry was evident in what he said next.  “Richard.  Do you need help with your repairs?  I’ll send someone back, if you do.”

Since the official Top Gear—and now Grand Tour—motto on road trips was “every man for himself”, this was quite a concession.  “No,” Richard said, though he sounded grateful.  “No, now that I’m no longer being distracted by half-naked women, I should be rolling in another twenty minutes.  I’ll meet you at the preserve as soon as I can.  We’ll…” he hesitated.  “We’ll talk then.”

“All right.  See you there.”

***

Thanks to the hopefully-humorous segment they’d filmed in Windhoek, comparing and contrasting Richard’s almost punitive style of camping with Jeremy and James’s loftier ideals, their accommodation for the night was downright luxurious.  They had trucks converted into travelling rooms complete with full size beds and running water, and even a trusty manservant to pour the wine and run the baths.  James was much too tense, though, to really appreciate Giavanni’s services.  He was on edge until Richard’s zebra-striped buggy finally drove up.  “Let me get cleaned up a bit before we start filming tonight’s camping scenes, gents,” he said.  “Jeremy, you dropped this at our last stop.  Here.”  And he pressed something into the rather startled Jeremy’s hand.

Surrounded by makeup people, James couldn’t speak to Jeremy right then.  But a few minutes later, the large presenter took him aside.  “And then there were four,” he murmured, opening his hand.  On his palm glimmered another crystal fragment.

“Good god,” James whispered.  “Jeremy.  Is that what the lady gave Richard?  The gift from her grandfather?”

Jeremy nodded.  “Richard would have given it directly to you, but we both know how—attractive—to Immortals the crystals make you, James.” he said.  “The last thing we need now is a bunch of SWWs coming out of the savannah.  I’ll keep this new one safe for now.”  He rolled his eyes.  “But if this keeps up, I’m going to need Giavanni to sew me some bigger pockets.” 

***

The ending of their beach buggy special was supposed to be the three of them reaching another beach in Northern Namibia and triumphantly driving their still functioning vehicles upon it, thus proving to the allegedly skeptical Mr. Wilman that beach buggies were truly invincible.  Alas, the road got progressively worse as they travelled north, rutted almost to complete impassability.  Eventually James suggested that they abandon it altogether, and travel in the smoother ground alongside the road until they reached the beach. 

This was not the most brilliant idea he’d ever had.  They lost so many hours getting bogged down in the ridiculously fine, treacherous Namibian dust that they ended up travelling by night, attempting to make up for lost time.  It was made even worse by the fact that by that late point in the journey, all of their buggies had been so abused that not a one of them possessed a complete set of working headlamps, making the treacherous journey that much more dangerous.  Finally, after a long, terrifying climb upward in the dark, Jeremy called a halt.  “We cannot carry on just plunging around in the darkness hoping to find a beach,” he said.  “And anyway…what’s that noise?”

“I would say,” Richard said, in the voice of man hesitantly announcing their upcoming doom, “That’s a waterfall. Is that something you want to come across in the dark?  Because the other thing I’d say about that sound—and mind you, it might just be my imagination--but it sounds to me as though it’s coming from below.  Like we’re ABOVE it.”

“Well, we have just climbed up that track,” Jeremy said, pointing. 

“And a waterfall is a drop, by definition,” Richard continued doggedly.  “If we’re…I don’t want to…in the dark…”

“Abandon,” Jeremy said decisively, cutting Richard off before he could find the words to voice the horror of accidently driving over a waterfall in the dark.  “I’m not doing it.  We’ll do it tomorrow, in the sun.  Let’s go have one more night looking at the stars in Namibia.  And then we’ll find the beach tomorrow and it will be fantastic.”  He looked to James and Richard for consensus.  “Any questions?”

“Just one,” Richard said, with a very tight smile.  “Your luxury camping accommodations got bogged down in the dust some twenty miles back.  I’m all for stopping here, Jeremy.  But it does rather look like we’ll be facing another night not just looking at the stars, but sleeping rough underneath them.  And—“ He prodded at the rocky, brushy ground beneath his boots.  “This doesn’t look nearly as comfortable as the Namib desert sand, somehow.”

“I know.  But I still think it’s better than soldiering on in the dark, and risking utter disaster,” Jeremy answered.  “James?”

“I—“

James had no objections.  He was relieved, for once, not to have to be the voice of reason the other two blithely ignored.  But there was something more.  The second he’d turned off his buggy engine, the sound of the waterfall in the distance had filled his ears like music.  As he listened, he could feel goosebumps prickle on his forehead and down the back of his neck, just as he did when listening to a particularly beautiful symphony.  In fact, he would almost say that the water sang with a human voice.  It called to him, lulled him, seemed to say that he was exactly where he needed to be.  He turned his face toward it, feeling the slightest caress of mist blow across his forehead in the dark desert night, and suddenly blinked.  “Abeni’s Heart,” he said.

“What was that, James?” Richard asked.

James was so entranced he would have explained, right there, in front of all the camera people and the rest of their poor exhausted crew.  Fortunately, Jeremy had more sense.  He quickly raised his hand and made a slashing movement across his neck, signaling to end recording. “I think we’ve got enough for tonight, everyone,” he said loudly.  “James and Richard and I will camp here, with the buggies.  Do you lot want to bed down here, too?  Or risk going back to the road and trying to find somewhere better to camp?”

There was some grumbling, but they had a good crew: people who knew exactly what working on one of their special episodes was apt to be like, and loved it anyway, even when they ended up sleeping rough.  Shortly, the air was filled with the sounds of well-trained people breaking down equipment for the night, and then pulling out bedrolls and camp stoves and horrid-but-nourishing freeze-dried meals for all.  By long standing tradition, the presenters and their vehicles were given a clearing to themselves;  Jeremy waited until everyone else had eaten and had more or less fallen asleep.  Then he gathered James and Richard and used a torch to guide them about a hundred feet farther into the darkness.  “All right,” Jeremy said, voice low.  “ _Now_ we can talk.  James?”

“Abeni’s Heart,” James answered.  “I think we’ve found it, Jez.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Richard demanded.

“He means the waterfall, Richard,” Jeremy said.  “It’s that girl from the story.  Remember?  When Abeni lost her Immortal girlfriend, she threw the Stone off the top of the highest mountain in the world and then jumped off after it.  When she hit, her heart and blood were turned into a roaring waterfall.”  Both James and Richard gaped at him.  “What?”  Jeremy demanded irritably.  “I _do_ listen when James talks, you know.  Sometimes, anyway.  About the important things.”  He raised a skeptical eyebrow at James.  “I’m just going to lay aside the utter insanity of a woman’s heart turning into a scenic monument, James—we’ve met people who live forever now, I suppose it’s really not that much of a stretch.  But you really think that this waterfall is _the_ waterfall?  I don’t know.  It seems like a pretty big coincidence to me.”

“He knows,” came a soft, hissing whisper in the dark, “because he can hear her voice.  Abeni is calling to him.”

All three presenters jumped.  And James, at least, probably would have jumped again.  Except that the sight of the speaker froze him to the bone.  Made it utterly impossible to even think of lifting foot from earth.

The man was was tall.  Tall enough to tower over Jeremy, which was a very rare thing in this world…and made even more unusual by the fact that Jeremy had the advantage of wearing boots, while the newcomer’s feet were bare, pale toenails glimmering like pearls against his dark skin.  Was he seven feet tall?  More?  James had no idea. All he knew was that the man’s height, combined with his spindly, angular form, made James feel pinned down somehow, like an insect pinned to a web.  This impression was heightened when Jeremy flashed his torch over the man, and his shadow, ridiculously huge and long-limbed, was suddenly thrown against the scrubby trees like something out of a particularly artistic horror film.  But unlike your average horror movie villain, the stranger didn’t flinch away from the light.  No, not even when Jeremy shined the torch directly in his face, which would have annoyed James no end.  The stranger just smiled, letting the light gleam off his teeth—and the complicated network of tribal facial scars deeply etched into his forehead and cheeks.  “Christ,” Richard said, both shocked and oddly reverent.  “Who are you, mate?”

The man’s smile broadened.  “Not _Him_ ,” he answered.

“Didn’t honestly think you were,” Jeremy said.  “In fact, I suspect I already know who you are.”  Jeremy shrugged, nodding his head to indicate Richard.  “I believe my friend here met your granddaughter along the highway, two days past.” 

“What,” Richard said, looking the man over from head to toe incredulously.  “You—you’re that beautiful girl’s _grandfather?”_

“Lovely Zoya,” the man said fondly.  “She has always been a most obedient girl.  So rare, in these modern times.  Though if you know women, one can say that obedience has been a rare trait always.”  His gaze fell over James.  “I believe she told you to expect me.”

“Oh, yes, she certainly did,” Jeremy answered testily, before James could answer.  “And it was very nice of her to do so.” He shifted the torch to his left hand…revealing a large handgun in his right.  “As you can see, I came prepared.”

“Jeremy!”  Richard squeaked.

“I’ve had just about enough of being messed about, Richard,” Jeremy said.  “It’s been one thing after another, ever since James first started carrying those damn rocks.  I think it’s about time someone explained to us exactly what’s going on.“ He waved the gun casually at the stranger.  “So, Mr. Mysterious Grandfather-Man.  I’ve got a lot of questions for you, and I suggest you answer quickly.  First things first, however.  Where.  Are.  James’s.  Friends?”

It was too dark for James to make out the exact model of the gun Jeremy held.  However, if he knew Jeremy, he’d gone for power over precision.  James was willing to bet that the gun was quite shockingly deadly.  But you certainly couldn’t have guessed that by the stranger’s reactions.  The man’s scarred face assumed a mildly amused air, and he looked at the handgun with thinly veiled disgust, the way one might consider a small boy threatening to throw a bug or a worm on one unless he gets his way.  “And if I refuse to answer quite as quickly as you would have me?” he inquired.

Richard gulped audibly.  James felt Jeremy’s muscles begin to tense…and then very quickly stepped back out in front of him, placing a gentle hand on his arm.  “Jeremy, don’t bother,” he said softly.  “It won’t do any good, not without a sword or a machete to back it up.  He’s Immortal.”

If possible, the scarred smile broadened further still, becoming the laughing grimace of a coyote or hyena.  “Well done, young one,” the intruder said.  “Your proximity to the Abeni’s Heart must be kick starting your senses.  Or perhaps you’ve simply met enough of us, now, to recognize the way age haunts all of our eyes.”  He took a long step forward, stopped when Jeremy made a threatening noise.  “Be easy.  I carry no sword.  I never have.  I am…of an earlier vintage than the others you have crossed paths with.”

“Right,” Jeremey said, staunchly refusing to lower the gun.  “And I suppose that means you’re just completely harmless, then.”

The scarred man laughed, a soft, whispering _sh-sh-sh_ sound that made every hair on the back of James’s neck stand on end.  “Oh, I never said I was _that.”_  He laughed again.

“Who are you?” Richard demanded again.

The stranger nodded at James.  “The young one knows my name.”

“Yes.  I think I do.”  James let his eyes sweep over the stranger one more time—the long, slender limbs, the ancient eyes, the facial scars.  The scars most of all.  They flowed together all over the man’s face, crossing and interlocking in a most disturbing way.  But in the bright light of the torch, James could see that there was just one main motif, repeated over and over on the man’s cheeks and a forehead.  It was made up of eight deep lines, bent and radiating outward from a central figure-8 shape in a way that every human culture had embraced, whether it had been on ancient petroglyphs, woven into baskets, or made into cheap plastic Halloween decorations.  It was a shape that spoke directly to the human hindbrain.  The Spider.  “You’re Anansi.”

“Erm.  Wait a minute, James,” Richard said uncomfortably.  “Not that I mean to argue with you, but.  Wasn’t Anansi supposed to be a god?  And, err…spider-shaped?”

Anansi…for it was unquestionably him…laughed yet again.  He dropped into a squat on the ground.  With his longs legs folded up to his shoulders, he looked even more like a spider than ever.  “Just a man,” he corrected.  “But an Immortal man, my new mortal friend.  One who first walked this earth in an age when the natural world had yet to be tamed.  When the wild magics of the soil and sky still ran free,  and could be called on by those who knew their secrets.”  For the first time, he looked sad.  “It…left its mark.”

“Is that how you made the Stone?”  James asked.

Anansi reached a long arm down.  He brushed his fingers…just as elongated and spidery as the rest of him…over the ground.  The soft top layer clung to his skin like talcum powder.  “Kaya was the most beautiful woman to ever walk this earth,” he said reminiscently.  “I courted her for a hundred thousand suns.  But she would have none of me.  Not me, nor any other man…nor, for long millennia, any woman, either.  It wasn’t until Abeni was born, and I heard that tiny heartbeat thrumming inside that fragile, infant, mortal body, that I began to understand.  That beat echoed Kaya’s, followed its rhythm the same way the leaf of a tree must shudder in the rain.  Even as a one-day old infant I could hear the way it sped when Kaya’s did, and steadied when she was at peace.  Then, when she was a woman grown, Kaya kissed her for the first time…and suddenly Abeni’s heart wasn’t following Kaya’s anymore, a fraction of a beat behind.  No, their hearts began to beat as one, together, indistinguishable.  I heard it.  I understood.  I knew then that Kaya had been waiting for…for that infant, that _mortal_ , ever since she had first drawn breath.  I knew she would never be mine.”  Anansi’s face set into harsh, stony lines.  He scooped up a small handful of dirt and curled his long fingers around it, clenching it hard.  “And my jealousy was…terrible.”

Jeremy’s arm relaxed.  For the first time, he allowed the gun to point at the earth.  When James, startled, looked up at him, he was astonished to see that Jeremy’s expression was gentle. “You set them up, didn’t you,” Jeremy said—but he didn’t sound accusing.  Just understanding.  Even compassionate.  “You knew that Kaya would sacrifice her eternal life so that Abeni would live.  And then you knew that Abeni would commit suicide rather than live without Kaya.”

Jeremy’s compassion baffled James.  They were talking about the premeditated slaughter of two women, after all.  How could Jeremy regard that with anything but anger?  And then he remembered Jeremy’s face, the morning he’d stormed up the stairs to find James in bed with Ben—yes, that and the far more terrible expression he’d worn the day before that, cutting into James mercilessly simply because he’d known he had a date later on.  Had Jeremy’s own feelings really been so terrible that he could now regard Spider’s actions with—not approval, certainly, never that—but with empathy?  James had never known… 

Meanwhile, Anansi simply nodded.  “She had bonded herself to a mortal,” he said.  “I knew she would make mortal mistakes.”

“But—“  Richard sounded completely confused, utterly out of his element.  James’s heart went out to him.  “But what did you _do_ exactly?  I mean…I know you made the Stone to…to trick her.  But how?”

“I took Kaya to the Cave of Light,” Anansi said.  “At that time, the stones there still held a hint of the Creator’s magic, a shadow of the power that originally shaped the world.  Kaya’s Quickening was pure…unlike me, in all her millennia, she had never killed another of our kind.  She carried the taint of no other in her soul; I knew the stones would accept her sacrifice, allow her to create what she most desired.  And yes, I knew how it would be in the end.  That Abeni too would die, rather than accept Kaya’s gift.”  Anansi looked down.  “I did not, as some of the stories say, send the little eight-legged one to give Kaya her death bite,” he finished.  “But I was not surprised when it did.  If it hadn’t been a spider, it would have been a snake, or a lion, or simply the teeth of time.  Yes.  Yes, I knew exactly how it would be.”

“But you did it anyway?”  Richard’s voice was heavy with disbelief.  He eyed Anansi like he was something filthy.  “That’s…that’s just horrible, mate.  I mean, so what if the lady you dug didn’t dig you back?  That’s called _life._ It happens.”    He shivered.  “You don’t go around killing people because of it.”

“Richard,” James said quietly.  “He’s been punished.”

“Has he?  ‘Cause I gotta say, I’m not really seeing it,” Richard said angrily.  “I thought the Mother Goddess was supposed to have taken away his power to change into human form, make him stay spider-shaped forever.”  His eyes raked up and down Anansi’s crouching body disdainfully.  “But he looks pretty damn human to me.”

“Oh, I have been punished, mortal,” Anansi hissed.  “I’m not surprised that the stories have gotten confused.  I did indeed lose the power to shapeshift—but my punishment was to remain _human._ Believe me.  It would have been far easier if had been the other way around.”  His laughter took on a desperate, mocking tone.  “Abeni’s last act was to entreat the gods to curse me to stay as I was…to keep my human heart, so I could mourn Kaya forever.  So I could spend the rest of eternity feeling all the evil of my act, understanding exactly how precious was the love my jealousy had led me to destroy.  And feel it I did, young one.  More deeply than you will ever know.”  His hand clenched around the soil again.  “And I’ve been forced to carry more than just my own guilt.  I have felt all the evil wrought by my creation—all the deaths the shattered stone has caused, all the misery and pain.  The fragments are tied to me with an unbreakable web; I cannot escape knowing where they wander.  So you see, mortal child, I have indeed been punished.  More brutally than you could ever guess.”  His eyes, sharp and piercing as an arrow, fell over James.  “It is why I will help you now.  Why I will lead you to your friends.”

“You truly know where they are?”

“They are being held where it all began,” Anansi answered.  “I will take you there.  But…”  He stood up, a slow unfolding that seemed to take three times as long as it should.  At any other time James would have laughed aloud to see the way Richard’s eyes bugged as he followed the movement, looking up…and up…and up.  But not now.  “But our journey must wait a little longer,” Anansi said.  “You are all tired, exhausted from herding those ridiculous contraptions of yours over a land they were never intended for.  And it is always better to approach the Mother Stones by day.  So…”

“Wait a second,” Jeremy interrupted, frowning.  “ _Mother_ stones?”

Anansi ignored him.  “So I will take you there,” he continued on.  “But not before dawn.  Not before you have rested.  And to see that you do…”  He raised his lips and blew.

It was the earth he had clenched in his palm.  Finer than powdered chalk, it flew from his hand in a cloud, straight into Richard’s startled face.  Richard coughed, swore…and then his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed into an ungainly heap, as thoroughly unconscious as if he’d really been shot by the anti-poacher tranquilizer gun Jeremy had allegedly used on him the night before.  Anansi blew again…and this time it was Jeremy who crumbled, an almost comic look of surprise on his face.  Which just left James, frozen, and suddenly very, very afraid.  He did his best not to show it.  “What did you do?” he demanded.

“Relax, my young one-day-possibly-Immortal friend,” Anansi said—quite condescendingly, James thought.  “I have simply put them to sleep.  They will dream peacefully and rest well, and wake with the energy required to face what lies ahead.  You, on the other hand…” He stared deeply into James’s eyes, a most uncomfortable sensation.  “I put the others to sleep first, hoping that we could have a few moments of private speech.  But now I see that you are even wearier than your companions.  So.  I will give you the same gift I gave them.  Dream deeply.  I will speak with you in the morning.”  He raised his hand, and blew a final time.

Everything went black.


	10. Chapter 10

**~ _Somewhere in the asteroid belt, 2528 CE~_**

The sign outside the pub read “Long Tall Jeremy’s” and it was, in James’s opinion, exceedingly obnoxious.  The red letters were huge even by asteroid belt standards, so large they could be seen through the depths of space by the citizens of the next three habitats, and whenever a passing craft got close Jeremy had programmed the L and the J to wiggle in an extremely rude fashion.  Still.  The rules were the rules: whoever they named the current pub after—and they took turns, each time they had to start a new life-- got to choose both the signage and the décor.  The last bar they’d owned had been called “Slow’s” and James had gotten the simple, elegant sign his heart had desired. “Hamster’s” sign had had been even ruder and cruder than “Long Tall Jeremy’s”, being “enhanced” with an image of an improbably-endowed lady repeatedly spreading and closing her legs.   James supposed that he really should be grateful that wiggle was all Jeremy’s letters did, especially since at some point in the last fifty years—James had no idea how or why—the phrase “my long tall Jeremy” had come to be common asteroid slang meaning “my enormous cock”.  (Jeremy swore he’d had nothing at all to do with this.  James had his doubts.)

Today, however, as James looked out of their pub’s observation bubble, he paid no attention at all to the annoying signage.  His eyes were drawn instead to the craft awaiting permission to dock at the restaurant one habitat ring over.  A few months back, Jeremy had taken them all to the Moon to test drive a similar model.  And even though there was no way James could justify the cost of buying one, he had to say that the craft was beautiful, by every definition of the word James personally had.  Its anodized titanium hull had gleamed in the docking guide lights. Its engine had hummed with the gentle electronic lullaby every modern manufacturer of personal space craft strove for, and so few achieved.  Most of all, it was beautiful inside…the new artificial gravity units Bugatti’s engineers had designed really were an innovation of the highest order, a breakthrough James admired with his entire soul.   James envied whatever lucky bastard owned the craft outside his window immensely; ever since he’d test driven one, his fingers had itched to get a hold of the equally beautifully designed control panel, take the Veyron 23 for a long jaunt through the black.  Or possibly even to spend an afternoon skipping over craters on one of the larger asteroids nearby. 

But neither Jeremy nor Richard had been quite so enthusiastic.  “The seats are shit,” Jeremey said now, seemingly utterly immune to the new Veyron’s seductive glitter.  “And what the hell was Bugatti thinking when they designed those airlock doors?  When I test drove it, I could barely get my pressure suit gloves through the handle.”

“It’s your own fault for being twice as big as your average belter, you great ape,” Richard said testily.  “ _I_ didn’t have any problems with the airlock handles at all.  But I’ll agree that the seats are utter shite.”  He sniffed dismissively.  “The landing gear sucks, too.  For all that hoopla Bugatti’s been putting out about their new artificial gravity, you’d think they’d have paid more attention to what happens when you dock.  I nearly bounced up to the ceiling when I landed on the Moon.”

“That’s because you always hover directly over the dock and just cut the anterior jets when you’re in gravity, dropping into the cradle like a stone,” James said wearily.  “If you’d just learn to park _properly,_ in careful stages, like a normal person…”

“As opposed to taking half an hour to maneuver the craft six bloody feet downward before cutting them, like you?”

“If you’d just read the manual…” James began.  And stopped, because Jeremy had started up that big belly laugh of his.  Both Richard and James glared at him.  “What?” they demanded in unison.

“Nothing,” Jeremy said, then promptly negated this by laughing again.  “It’s just…do you realize that you two have been bickering about Richard’s parking for…”  He made a great show of checking the time display woven into the wrist cuff of his jumpsuit, then smiled at them.  It was a smile of pure love, pure appreciation.  “Over five hundred years?”

Both James and Richard doubled the force of their glares.  Then the full force of Jeremy’s love and pride sank into them, much the way sunlight had once sunk into frozen ground back on Earth.  “And you’ve been complaining about the way nobody designs handles and switches for those overgrown ape hands of yours for even longer,” Richard said.  But the comment was fond instead of heated, and before James knew it all three of them were laughing. 

Jeremy wrapped an arm around each of them, pulling them close as they continued to watch the new Veyron through the port. “Gentlemen, I have a proposition for you,” he said.

Richard’s eyes sparkled wickedly.  “You want to turn off the gravity in our quarters tonight?”  he said.  “You always did have a thing for zero-gee sex, you kinky bastard.”

“It does have a pleasant way of making our height differences irrelevant,” James put in thoughtfully.  “Makes it much easier to fit three bodies together, too.”

“Yes, James,” Jeremy said tolerantly.  “But that wasn’t quite the proposition I had in mind.” He nodded at the Veyron, gleaming so prettily in its dock.  “I think it’s time we started a new car show.”

Both Richard and James stared.  It wasn’t like the topic had never come up before.  Humanity had long since forgotten their names; as Richard liked to point out, the kids today didn’t even know who Beyoncé was, let alone three middle-aged bastards who used to cock about driving ancient Terran cars.  They _could_ start presenting again safely, and—now that your average mortal human lived to be nearly two hundred years old—keep it up for much longer than they had on Terra, before people started wondering why they still hadn’t died.  But always before, whenever Jeremy had spoken of it, it had been in a vague, distant, maybe-one-day sort of way.  Somehow, both James and Richard knew that today was different.  “You’re serious,” Richard said slowly.

“As genital lice in a pressure suit,” Jeremy agreed.  “Think about it.  The new faster-than-light communication arrays back to Earth and the Moon have been functioning for over five standard years.  It’s proven technology now.  The singularities aren’t going to break down, or blow up and swallow the entire universe like people thought.  For the first time in history, a program made in the asteroid belt can be seen anywhere human beings live, without a major time delay.  That’s important, gentlemen.  Because the same communication technology is letting pioneers settle further and further out into the belt than anyone ever dreamed—and one day soon, they’ll be moving beyond the solar system altogether.”  His arms tightened around James and Richard slightly.  “I want us to be the ones making them laugh and telling them which craft to buy when they do.”

James nodded softly.  The ability to create small stable wormholes through time-space was, he believed, something that would advance humanity as much as the invention of the printing press or the microprocessor had done.  As yet, such wormholes were very, very small, only a fraction of a millimeter at the most.  But that was more than large enough to permit communication, and James had no doubt that sooner or later, some bright boy would figure out how to make a wormhole big enough to carry a human craft—after which the entire universe would become man’s playground, to discover and settle.  _And to fight over, too_ , he thought bleakly.  Two centuries ago, watching the inevitable conflicts between Earth and her child colonies in space bloom into total war had been one of the most painful things James had ever witnessed; the only thing he could say was that by some miracle, no one had actually ever used a nuclear weapon against the Earth, though of course for a while it had been threatened every day.  Fortunately, though her population was now a tenth of what it had been, their old home planet was still as green and fertile as ever.  And beginning to thrive again in terms of innovation and industry, as the Bugatti now hovering outside their viewport proved.  “Do you really think people will be interested, though?”  James said now.  “I mean, really good personal craft are still largely a luxury item, even out here.  The most many people can ever hope to own is a tiny jumper to carry them from their mines to the nearest market habitat.”

“And Earth’s been talking about rebuilding their global transit network,” Richard put in.  “Making human-driven cars illegal again.  Just like they were before the War.”

Jeremy snorted eloquently.  “They’ll be fools if they do,” he said.  “Self-driving cars are the whole reason Earth lost the War in the first place.”

“Jeremy!” Richard said, shocked.

“I think there’s a few million historians who would disagree with you,” James said more mildly.

Jeremy made an impatient face.  “Yes, yes, yes,” he said.  “I _know_ there were other reasons, James.  Like the fact that Earth had gotten too dependent on the asteroids for raw materials like iron and tantalum and even food; when we cut them off, they were helpless.  And of course the fact that it’s next to impossible to quarantine an entire planet, so when the super flu hit in 2377, there was no way to keep it from spreading, like they managed on the Moon and the stations.  But the real reason they lost was that _no one had needed to learn how to bloody drive for more than ten generations._ No teenager had to pass a licensing test with a cock-freezing old harridan of a proctor in the passenger seat.  No grownup ever had to do battle over a parking space in order to avoid being fired for being late to work, either.”  He looked sadly out the viewport.  “Bred the fighting spirit right out of the poor buggers.”

“That’s…” James began, and stopped.  He really couldn’t argue. 

“Think about it,”  Jeremy continued.  “The Moon and Mars _could_ have gone the same route—could have outlawed human-driven vehicles planet-wide, I mean.  And the Moon does insist that people use public transport inside the cities, underground.  But even there?  On the surface, it’s anything goes.  And I don’t ever see that changing, now.  Because the basic truth is this:  _human beings need to drive themselves._ We need to feel like our destinies lie in our own hands.  Even if it’s just for a few minutes, on the way to pick up protein cubes at the nearest market ring.”  Outside, the Veyron finally got clearance to dock and dropped into its cradle.  Jeremy watched it meditatively.  “Even the kids on the poorest asteroid mines and in the worst ghettoes on Earth still dream about one day owning a craft of their own.  Those dreams are never going to change, James.  And as we start pushing farther and farther out into the galaxy…well.  I want us to be the ones who help them figure out what to dream about.”

There was a silence.  Then:   “Point-of-view virtual reality’s really gotten much, much better and cheaper to make, the last few decades,” Richard said musingly.  “People could actually feel like they’re in the craft when we do reviews.  We could give them the option of sitting in the passenger seat while we blather on, or driving it themselves.”

“Yes,” Jeremy said.  His eyes were gleaming.

“And nobody’s ever really put together a consistent source of motoring news from all over human space,” James put in.  “I mean, there’s a few VR blogs for the diehard craft-heads, but they’re pretty Moon- and Earth-centric.  We could change that.  Start doing Conversation Street again, give Mars and the belt an equal voice.”

“Yes!”  Jeremy said. 

He was grinning like a true lunatic now.  Which should have been frightening, James knew.  He hadn’t seen that particular grin in quite some time…which was fortunate, because it usually presaged some sort of unbelievable disaster.  But here, now, it just felt right.  Warm.  Perfectly inevitable. 

And perhaps even inevitably perfect, too. 

“So.  Are we agreed then?” Jeremy asked softly.  “Is it time for us to become…us…once again?”

“You know, I really think it is,” James said thoughtfully.  “Richard?”

“Yeah,” Richard said.  His grin was just as manic as Jeremy’s.  “Yeah.  You know I’m in.” 

And they started making plans…

***

James awoke with a bump.  The stale, recycled air of the space station and the slight vibration of the not-quite-perfect artificial gravity had been so real that it took a moment to realize he wasn’t still there: the he was, in fact, lying on an Earth no interplanetary war or super flu had yet decimated, with cool fresh air in his nose and even cooler rocky soil against his back.  There was the sound of rushing water, too, a thousand times louder than it had been last night.  He sat up, discovering quickly that Jeremy and Richard, still in dressed in their previous day’s clothes, were both lying snoring nearby.  And Anansi was there, too, sitting crouched against a nearby tree.  “What the bloody hell was that?” James demanded.

“A gift,” Anansi said calmly.  “A pleasant dream, to help you rest.”  His dark gaze became piercing.  “And perhaps even a vision of the future, to inspire.”

“It can’t be,” James said angrily.  His left hand felt absurdly naked, and he knew why:  in the dream he’d been wearing a wedding ring.  So had both Jeremy and Richard.  They hadn’t had to _hide._ It was everything James could ever have asked for…and having it snatched away by cold, harsh reality seemed incredibly cruel.  “It can’t be,” James repeated.  “That dream took place _five hundred years_ in the future, Anansi.  Even if I become Immortal, it’s extremely unlikely I’ll keep my head that long.  I’ll never live to see it happen.”  Richard gave a particularly loud snort of a snore.   James regarded him, heart breaking within his chest.  “And neither will Jeremy and Richard.”

“Won’t they?” Anansi asked.  In the morning light he seemed less real, somehow, than he had in the night—washed out, grey, not quite there.  Even his facial scars were harder to make out.  “Four of the six pieces of the stone have already found their way to you, young one.  Is it really so hard to believe you’ll eventually find the missing two?”

“No,” James answered bluntly.  “It’s not.  Especially not…not here.”  The water’s voice was still chiming through his head, calling him on.  He ignored it with an effort, clenching his hands.  “But if I do…that will make it even worse, don’t you see?  Six pieces, yes…but they only make up one stone.  That means I’d have to choose which one to give it to.”  He curled his fingers even tighter.  “I won’t do that.  I _can’t.”_

“Hmmm.”  Anansi nodded.  “And so it all falls into place.  I finally understand why we all needed to wait so long.  Why Kaya and Abeni chose to wait for _you.”_ He slowly rose to his feet.  “Come with me, James.  It’s time for you to see just where ‘here’ is.”

Against his better judgment—and very discomfited that Anansi had, for some reason, finally decided to use his proper name--James stood, too.  He followed Anansi through a small copse of trees to a nearby ledge. Where he suddenly found himself looking down at the most astounding waterfall he’d ever seen.

Not just one waterfall.  A dozen, a hundred, more…the canyon seemed to be made of nothing _but_ falls for as far as James could see.  Water tumbled over the ancient stones with wonderful majesty, filling James’s eyes with refracted rainbows and his heart with awe.  He glanced at Anansi.  The old Immortal was standing at the very edge of the ledge and was looking downward too, with great sadness.  “It…it’s beautiful.”  James said softly.  And completely inadequately, too.

“Abeni always did have the most unusual of hearts,” Anansi said. He pointed a long finger downward.  “There.  The path.  Do you see?”

James frowned, took his courage firmly in hand, went to the edge of the ledge and looked down.  About six feet below his feet there was another ledge, leading off into the mist.  It was narrow, and scrambling back onto the cliff from it would be quite a feat, but he could see that it formed a possible path.  “Yes…”

“It leads to a cave.  Your missing friends are being kept within it.”  Anansi shrugged.  “Take your other hearts and find them—they are both waking now.  I have done all I can.”  He looked at James for a long moment.  Then—it happened so fast James couldn’t have stopped it if he tried—Anansi stepped over the ledge.

“ANANSI!!!”

The long, slim body dropped like a stone, landing for a second, frog-like, on hands and feet on the narrow ledge he’d shown James.  Then, just as quickly, he jumped again.  He fell for what seemed an endless time, finally disappearing into the rushing river below with a remarkably soundless splash.  James dropped to his belly at the edge, desperately scanning the waves for some sign that Anansi had survived the fall, and was swimming to the surface. But he saw nothing.

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ James told himself.  _The man is Immortal.  Even if he died on impact, he’ll revive soon.  Some poor fisherman will probably get the scare of his life when he crawls up onto the bank further downstream._ But it didn’t help his wildly beating heart to slow.

“James?  JAMES!”

Jeremy.  “Yes, Jez.  I’m here!”  James shouted back.

“Where?”

“HERE!!”

“WHERE???”

“Oh, for cock’s sake.”  James blundered back through the trees, where Jeremy was standing over the clearly-just-awakening Richard.  Richard was yawning and looking bewildered.  “That was one _very_ strange dream,” he said.  “Errr…where are we?”

“I’m not sure,” James answered.  “Not far from where we were, I think.  Closer to the waterfall.  It’s just beyond those trees there.”

“Riiiight.”  Richard took this with remarkable calm.  “And just how did we get here, exactly?”

Jeremy snorted derisively.  “Anansi’s magic pixie dust,” he answered.  “Put you down quicker than a prize fighter’s punch, Richard.  I’m assuming it knocked me out, as well.”  His forehead furrowed.  “James.  I had the most vivid dream.”

“Let me guess,” James said, smiling painfully.  “The three of us owned a bar in space?”

“Er, no.  We owned a bar in South America,” Jeremy said.  “But we were talking about going to live in space.  The Moon, I think.  It was, um, about a hundred and fifty years from now, I think, and there were enough people living on the Moon for it to have become a sovereign nation.  It all seemed so possible…”  He scratched his head, looking quite honestly baffled.  “James.  You didn’t have the same dream, did you?”

“Not quite,” James answered.  “Mine was a couple of hundred years after that, when we’d moved from owning a bar on the moon to owning one in the asteroid belt.  But yes.  We were all still together.  And happy.  We were talking about filming a new show about spacecraft in virtual reality.”  He looked curiously at Richard.  “Richard?”

“Well, my dream was only about ten years ahead of where we are now,” Richard said softly.  “We’d just accepted a lifetime achievement award at the BAFTAs, and announced our retirement from any kind of public appearances from the podium.  I wasn’t sad, though.  Just…happy.  Looking forward to what came next.  I knew it was going to be good.”  He looked at James, eyes filled with a painful, fragile, hope.  “James.  Anansi wasn’t just messing with us, was he?  Do you think there might really be a chance…”

“I don’t know,” James said.  “He’s no longer around to ask.”  He laughed humorlessly.  “He might have just wanted out us down for the count while he dragged us all here…or teleported us, for all I know.  Wherever here is, it’s definitely where he wants us to be.”  He nodded at the tree line.  “Abeni’s heart is just beyond those trees.  And there’s a path Anansi showed me, leading down into the canyon.  It’s pretty frightening—narrow and rocky and steep.  Anansi said we’d find Ben and Amanda and Richie and Joe at its end.  Right before…” He swallowed.  “Right before he jumped off the edge of the cliff.”

“ _Fuck,”_ Richard whispered.  “Anansi jumped?  Off a bloody cliff?”

James nodded.  “He won’t be coming back.”

“Fuck,” Richard said again.  Jeremy, though, just looked sober.  “I think you’d better show us this path, James,” he said.  And James nodded again and led the way.

There was a long moment of silence when they first broke through the trees, and the falls came into view—Jeremy and Richard both stared, stared, and stared some more, trying, and failing, to take in the full scope of the falls’ overwhelming beauty.  “That’s…” Jeremy began, and stopped.  He couldn’t seem to come up with anything more to say.

“Abeni’s Heart,” Richard said reverently.  “I guess…I guess it finally makes sense, Kaya spending thousands of years waiting for her.  Her heart must have been very beautiful to start with, if the gods turned it into _this_.”

“Anansi said something very similar,” James agreed.  He led them to the edge, pointed them to the narrow ledge that lay such a potentially perilous drop below.  “Well, gentlemen.  That’s the path.  Shall we take it?  Or decide the whole thing is mad and try to find out way back to our dune buggies?”

There was another long silence, as Richard and Jeremy consulted each other by eye.  “I think we’ve already come this far, mate,” Richard said at last.  “I’d like to see it through.  But only if Jeremy agrees.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Jeremy said.  He was looking at the ledge worriedly.  “None of us is exactly good with heights…that’s why we sent poor Giavanni up in the parachute, back on the wildlife reservation.  And I’m the heaviest, so I’m the one who will make the biggest splat when we fall.  But…”  He sighed.  “I think we have to anyway.  It’s not like a plan’s being completely mad has ever stopped us before, anyway.  James?”

“It _is_ mad.  But…I think we have to, anyway.”  James answered.  He looked at his beloveds, made sure that he met both of their eyes in turn.  “If something goes wrong…”

“We know, James,” Jeremy said softly.  “We love you, too.  And it’s all been worth it.  Every minute.”  Richard nodded his emphatic agreement.  Jeremy held out his hand.  “Come on, then.  Help me scramble down onto that death trap.  If we’re going to do this crazy thing, we might as well do it before the sun gets too high and the canyon turns into a giant reflecting oven.”

He sat down with his legs hanging over the edge, holding out his hands.  James and Richard each grabbed one and helped steady him as Jeremy half slid, half fell onto the ledge below.  “Right,” he said, sounding very strained.  “That’s me done.  Who’s next?  James?”

James hesitated, heart in his throat.  He really didn’t like heights, not one little bit.  But Richard took his hand, helping him as he slid down, and Jeremy caught him when he arrived.  Then the two of them helped to catch Richard.  “Right,” Jeremy said again, clearly trying not to let his own fear overwhelm him.  “Only one way to go, I see.  Bit narrow, isn’t it?”

James gulped.  The ledge wasn’t quite as narrow as it had seemed from up top; the cliff angled back slightly, so there was almost a good foot of possible foothold someone standing above couldn’t see.  Still, it was considerably narrower than your average British sidewalk, and the sharp drop off to one side was terrifying.  “Jeremy…Richard…”

“One step at a time,” Richard said soothingly.  “We’ll get to the end of it together.  Just like we always do.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

They all inched along, Richard in the lead, James in the middle, Jeremy bringing up the rear.  James was glad, at least, that the path never grew too steep. It sloped gently down the rocky cliff in a series of switchbacks, almost as if the ledge had been planned by man, rather than a natural occurrence.  James’s eyes told him they were making steady progress downward, but James’s feet didn’t really realize it at all…until a sudden sharp turn carried them out of the cliff’s shadow into the sunshine, and the three men were forced to gasp.  There was a waterfall just ahead of them, taller than a skyscraper; it filled their ears with a crashing roar and the air with mists and rainbows.  The blue of the sky, the rushing white of the falls, and the red, red, red stone of the cliffs around them and under their feet made for a stunning picture, one that took all three men’s breath away. 

“James,” Richard said softly.  “This is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.  In all of our adventures.”

“I think so, too,” James agreed.  He stepped to the very edge of the ledge to get a better look…and frowned, as the familiar stomach-sinking sensations he was expecting just didn’t occur.  “I’m not frightened anymore,” he said.  “Why am I not frightened anymore?”

“It’s this place,” Jeremy said in a hush.  “I feel it too.”  He pointed to a dark patch in the distant rock.  “What’s that?”

“Dunno,” Richard said.  “Could be a natural cave, I suppose.  But it looks more like the entrance to an old mine.”  He frowned suddenly.  “Jez?  When you and Andy were researching this place for the show…I know you said they used to do a lot of mining in this area.  Do you remember what they mined _for?”_

“Um…let me think,” Jeremey said, forehead furrowed.  “Not diamonds, not here; those mines are all farther south.  Locally, they mined for copper, mostly.  A bit of silver.  And…” He suddenly looked stunned.  “Quartz.  Lots and lot of quartz.”

“We’re in the right place, then,” James said positively.  “Come on.  I think that mine is where we’re going to find our missing friends.”

With renewed faith—and that strange new lack of fear—the three men doubled their pace, closing the distance to the waterfall in almost no time.  When they realized that the path took them directly behind the fall, James experienced another moment of wonder.  He _should_ have been more terrified than ever.  The giant pour of water blocked out all light, and the rocks shook and vibrated with its force.  They were also very slippery from the spray.  But Richard got this unbelievable glow in his eye.  “Count of three,” he said gleefully.  “One, two, three…go!” And suddenly they were all racing through darkness, spray soaking their hair, screaming out like teenagers coaxing their cars to 120 for the very first time. 

The sound of the rushing water drowned out their cries.  When they emerged at the other side, wet and laughing and breathless, it felt like the world couldn’t be a more beautiful place.   “That was freaking FANTASTIC!!!”  Richard shouted.  “WOOHOO!” 

“YESSSS!!!”  Jeremy shouted.

“MANALIVE!!!” James added his own shout to the chorus, much to the other two’s amusement.  Then he frowned.  No longer quite drowned out by the waterfall, their shouts were echoing all along the canyon walls:  _fantasticwhoohooyesmanalive_ repeating over and over again.  “Erm,” James said, much more quietly.  “We might regret having done that.”

“Why?”

“Because.”  He nodded at the mine’s mouth, now much closer than it had been.  “We don’t know who might be in there, besides our friends.  Whoever they are, they’ll know we’re coming now.  Unless they’re completely deaf.”

“I think they’d know you were coming soon in any case,” Jeremy said, voice very strained.  “If they’re Immortal, at least.  I have to, um…that is, I need…”

James studied him.  Though Jeremy’s cheeks were still flushed from the rush of running under the waterfall, he looked extremely awkward.  “What is it, Jeremy?”

“It’s the crystals, right?” Richard said, without waiting for Jeremy to respond.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I feel it too.  Have been, ever since we first woke up from Anansi’s fairy dust.  And it’s been getting stronger with every step we take.”  He reached under his shirt, pulled out Amanda’s crystal, and pulled the thong from up and around his neck.  A second later he was digging into his pocket for the second crystal he carried.  He held them out to James.  “We’re not supposed to have these anymore, James” he said.  “You need to be the one to carry them now.”

“Yes,” Jeremy said, sounding relieved.  “That’s exactly it.”  He dug into his jeans pockets, too, came up with his two crystals.  “I can’t explain it, James.  But Richard is right.”

“Don’t be an ass,” James said.  His eyes were very wide.  “They make me sound like a full-blown Immortal, remember?  We don’t know who is holding Ben and Amanda, Jeremy.  If they’re Immortal, and I’m carrying these…they’ll be able to hear me coming.”

“I know.  But it’s…it’s necessary, James.”  Jeremy waved at him helplessly.  “Here.  Just take them.  See if it feels wrong to you.  If it does, we’ll…I don’t know, find a place to bury them or something.  But I really don’t think Richard and I can carry them anymore.”  He held out the crystals in his hands.  “Please.  Just try.”

Against his better judgment, James took the crystals from his beloved.  Because he was James, he fitted them together as he did…and was not entirely surprised when the fragments gave a pulse of that familiar blue light.  For a second the sharp points and edges seemed to melt, seemed to be trying to make up a new shape altogether…something round, James thought, like a ball.  After a moment it gave up, and reverted back to its original pointy cluster.  But try as he would, James could not get the pieces to separate again.  They appeared to be one large cluster now, hanging from Amanda’s pendant bail.  “That’s…not supposed to happen,” James said, in a masterwork of understatement.  “Ben was sure the crystals wouldn’t fuse until all six pieces were together.”

He felt Jeremy’s hand, large and reassuring, on his shoulder.  “I don’t think there’s any use in talking about what is and what’s not supposed to happen,” he said.  “We’re not in the driver’s seat anymore, James.  Neither is Ben.  The crystals are.”

“Am I supposed to find that comforting?”

“Well, I do.”  Jeremy gestured at the red rocks.  “Here, at least.  I’m sure I’d be scared as hell anywhere else.  But there’s something about this place.”

“Yes,” Richard said thoughtfully.  His eyes were still glued on the freshly-fused cluster.  “I know exactly what Jeremy means.  I find it comforting, too.  Here. In this place.”

“Come on,” Jeremy said.  “Put the crystals round your neck, James, and we’ll go on.  The mine’s not far at all, now.”  He looked at it consideringly.  “They’ve brought us pretty damn far already, you know.  I want to know what they’ve got in mind for us next.”

***

What happened next was…darkness.

The three men stayed silent as they climbed into the cave mouth and began following the old, old cart rails laid along the floor inside, the light from the outer world diminishing with every step.  Eventually, they all got out their mobiles and turned on the flashlights, shining them ahead…but it didn’t help much.  It was enough to see the next three feet of rail, maybe, but nothing more.  James felt like they were in a world of contrasts…their tiny little bubble of modern light pushing back a giant world of darkness.  And then…

They went around a sharp corner.  And suddenly, there was nothing _but_ light. 

The cave roof had a crack in it here.  It opened to the sky enough to let in the sun, and what that sunlight illuminated was beyond anything James had ever experienced.  There were quartz crystals _everywhere._ It was like walking into a giant geode.  Some were small—the size of James’s little finger or less.  Most were larger—softball size to basketball size.  And some were very, very large indeed.  At the very far edge of the cavern stood the three largest crystals, each as tall as Jeremy and three times as wide.  But whatever their size, all the crystals shone with a brilliant radiance, reflecting and refracting the sunlight in a way completely dazzling to behold.  If James had thought the view outside was beautiful, this was something more.  Something greater.  Something…sacred.  Jeremy, Richard and James all lowered their phones and gaped.  “The Cave of Light,” James breathed.

“Only for a few minutes longer,” a male voice called.  It was distorted and echoed from travelling through the cave.  But it was still so familiar and _missed_ that James had to fight down the sudden desire to cry.  “The sun only hits the roof at the right angle to illuminate the cave for a short time every day.  You arrived at just the right moment, James.”  Shaky laugh.  “In more ways than one.”

“Ben!”

Beautiful or not, a gigantic geode is a very hard thing to walk through.  There were crystal-free paths, here and there; but the dazzling brilliance made them very difficult to see.  After a few minutes of horrible, floundering confusion, the three presenters managed to round a series of waist-high boulders, where they found a roughly shed-sized patch of ordinary, gravelly ground.  Ben was sitting with his back propped up against a dark grey boulder, his feet and hands bound with cable ties. Amanda and Dawson and Richie were all sitting nearby, bound in exactly the same way.  They all looked filthy and tired and extremely the worse for wear. Amanda and Ben and Richie merely had dirt streaking down their pale faces, but the left side of Joe’s face was liberally streaked with dried blood.  Instantly James was moving forward, fumbling in his pocket for his trusty multi-tool.  He snapped out the smaller knife blade and would have knelt to cut Ben free, only Ben shook his head.  “No, take care of Joe first,” he said.  “He’s mortal.  And already badly hurt.”

“I’m on it,” Richard called, his own multi-tool flashing.  Jeremy didn’t carry a multi-tool, but he did have an elegant two-blade pocket knife James and Richard had given him for Christmas; he quickly set about using it to free Amanda.  So James turned back to Ben, slicing through the brittle plastic with one snap.  The second he was free, Ben gave James a fervent hug.  Then he snatched up something from the ground—it was an electric camping light, the kind that could either be a hand-held torch or a free-standing lantern depending on how you arranged it…and went to Dawson.  “Can you stand, Joe?”  Ben asked.

“If two of you pull me up, of course I can,” Joe said.  “I’ve told you a thousand times already, Methos.  I’m not hurt, not really.  Just a little scratched up.”

“Your face is covered in blood, Joe.”

“Yeah, well, so I slipped on my way in, cut my head open on one of those damn pointy rocks,” Joe said, wincing slightly as Ben knelt to examine the cut, shining the torch directly into Joe’s face.  “ _You_ try walking over a rocky cave floor with no legs.”  He gave his calf a thump for emphasis, where the hems of both his trouser legs had ridden up, revealing two metallic posts.  James’s eyes widened…he hadn’t known until that very moment that Dawson was a double amputee.  “It may have bled like a bitch, thanks to all the blood thinners I’m taking, but I’m _fine_ , Methos.  Not even a concussion.  Honest.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Ben answered, and promptly proceeded to give Dawson a thorough field examination: shining the light in his eyes to check how his pupils contracted, making him follow a finger from left to right, etc. etc.  Meanwhile, Jeremy had succeeded in freeing both Amanda and Richie.  “Oh, god, you have no idea how glad I am to see you!” Amanda exclaimed.

“How did you get here, Amanda?” James asked.

“Chloroform in the ladies’ room in Istanbul,” Amanda said with a wince.  “My own fault, really.  I knew someone had been following me for days—that’s why I mailed my crystal to you, James.  But I let him get the jump on me anyway.  Stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Ben said, pausing in examining Joe’s temple just long enough to throw Amanda an affection smile.  “He got me too, little vixen, remember.  And I’m _much_ more paranoid than you.”

“He got Joe and me, too,” Richie said.  “And we’d already figured out he had to be mortal, too.  I mean, if he’d been Immortal, he’d never have gotten close enough to get the jump on either of you.”

“Which pretty much meant he had to be a Watcher,” Dawson agreed.  “If we’re handing out stupid awards, the grand prize should go to me.  I really should have figured out who was behind all this sooner.  I just never thought it would be Maureen and Justin’s kid, you know?  Little Kevin Russell, son of two of the nicest Wat—two of the nicest people I ever knew.  The one who had such a big crush on Amy at the Academy.”  He winced a little as Ben touched a sensitive spot.  “So.  We all goofed up big time.”

“Fortunately, the cavalry is here,” Amanda said, relief obvious.  She gave James a crushing hug.

Crushing, yes—Amanda was strong.  But there was a slight tremble in her grasp, too, and she clung to him in a way he’d never known Amanda to cling before.  James squeezed her tightly, awkwardly trying to lend her his own strength.  “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Almost ten days, I think.  He took all of our phones, so it’s been a little hard to keep track.  Ben was here about a week before that.  And Joe and Richie just arrived yesterday.”

“They held us for several days in Windhoek before they finally drove us here,” Joe said.  “I’m not sure why they decided yesterday was the day.”

“They?  Who are ‘they’?”

“Our mysterious adversary.  A Seacouver boy by the name of Kevin Russell.  And a bunch of local muscle he hired.”  Joe sounded fairly smug.  “Took four of them to get me into the back of the truck.”

“It did,” Richie confirmed with a grin. “Joe fought like an animal.  I never knew a cane could be so damn _lethal._ ”

“God, I’m so sorry,” James said, shocked.  “We arrived in Namibia four days ago.  We were in Windhoek just the day before yesterday.  If we’d known…”

“There was no way _to_ know, James,” Jeremy said.  “Not until Anansi decided to clue us in.”

Ben’s head snapped up sharply.  “Did you say Anansi?”

“It’s a long story,” James replied.  Carefully, gently, he detangled himself from Amanda’s grasp.  “And I’ll be happy to fill you all in.  Later.  For now… shouldn’t we all be riding off into the sunset about now?  Before Mr. Chloroform comes back?”

“James,” Jeremy said warningly.  “I’m not sure all of us can make it back up the trail.” He nodded at Dawson’s still-exposed prosthetics in what was, for him, a very subtle, sensitive way.  “It’s pretty damn unsteady footing.  And a bad scramble straight up a cliff right at the end.”

“There’s another entrance to the caves to the east,” Ben said.  “It leads to an abandoned road—that’s how all four of us were brought here.  Judging from all the bumps I endured on the way in, it will be rough walking.  But Joe managed to keep them from taking his cane.  I think if we go slow, he’ll be okay.”

“Hey!” Joe protested.  “I’m right here, you know.  And of course I’ll be okay.”

“But there’s no need to hurry,” Ben continued.  “Our charming host has fallen into a pattern of coming by twice a day to make sure we’re fed and watered.  He’s already made his morning visit today.  He won’t be back now until late tonight.  So we can afford to take a little time before we leave.”  He nodded at Dawson. “I want to make sure you don’t have a concussion _before_ we try making our escape, Joe.”

“I don’t.  Trust me, Methos.  I’ve gotten plenty over the years, getting into trouble with you and MacLeod.  I know what a concussion feels like.  This isn’t it.”

“I’m tempted to agree with you, actually,” Ben said dryly.  “You certainly aren’t showing any of the classic signs.  But that head wound...”  He leaned in close to Joe’s forehead, frowned.  “You’re right.  It _is_ just a small cut.  It probably won’t even need stitches, though I never would have guessed that, when I first saw all the blood.”  Ben gave Dawson an odd look.  “Just what are you taking blood thinners for, anyway?”

“He had a heart attack,” Richard Ryan chirped. 

“Gee, thanks, Richie,” Dawson said wryly.  “I really couldn’t have remembered that for myself.”  He looked up at Ben, who had gotten very pale.  “Yeah.  I did.  It was over eight years ago now, though.  I’m fine.  The medication’s just insurance.”  Ben didn’t answer, just continued to look sick.  Joe frowned worriedly.  “I really am fine,” he repeated.  “You don’t have to look like you’re about to lose your lunch, Methos.  I’m not going to keel over right here.”

“That’s not what I—“  Ben stopped, swallowed, started again.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I couldn’t _find_ you,” Joe answered.  “You were completely off the grid then, remember?  Off trekking through Nepal or Mozambique or wherever the heck you disappeared to.  It was more than a year later before you finally settled down to live as Ben Adamson in London.  And I _did_ try to call you then.  But you…”

“Refused to pick up,” Ben said.  He seemed to sway slightly.  “Oh, Joe.”

“It’s okay.  It’s all okay now,” Joe said quickly.  “We’ve both been stupid, Methos.  But it’s all fixed now.”  He reached up, took Ben’s hand.  His face was very earnest.  “Isn’t it?”

Ben didn’t answer.  But he nodded softly, clasping Joe’s hand in both of his.  And that was the moment the light started to fade.

It happened slowly, much more like a sunset than a light switch being flicked…which was, James supposed, exactly what was happening.  As the sun’s rays moved beyond the crack in the ceiling, the dazzling radiance began to dim:  first subtly, then more noticeably, until all that was left was a crack-shaped line of light on the cave floor that thinned until it disappeared.  They weren’t left in total darkness, though.  In the absence of the sunshine a new, softer blue light took over, making the crystals shimmer like stars in the nighttime sky.  James looked to the far end of the cave…and saw that the light was coming from the three giant quartz crystals he’d glimpsed when he first came in, each glowing blue from its heart.  “The Mother Stones,” he said softly.

“We think so,” Ben said, voice reverent.  “There’s not much else they really can be, can they.  Allegedly, the Methuselah stone was born from them.  And I have to say, I think the legends might be right.”  He looked up at James hesitantly.  “James.  Amanda and I could sense you coming, long before you actually entered the cave.  You have an Immortal Presence once again.  Are you carrying a fragment?  Or…”

“I didn’t die, if that’s what you were asking,” James said.  “Those two muppets over there came over all strange a few hundred feet outside the cave, insisted that the crystals weren’t theirs to carry any longer.  So they gave them all to me.  Here, turn on your torch again.” 

Ben did so.  James fished out the large cluster from under his shirt, held it out to the light.  Instantly, Amanda and Dawson and Richie as well as Ben were crowing around him, trying to see.  “That’s my crystal,” Amanda said, sounding shocked.  “But not _just_ my crystal.  Methos.  They’ve _fused!”_

“I can see that,” Ben said.  He reached out one hand, touched the tip of one cluster thoughtfully.  “It’s got to be something to do with James, Amanda.  His energy, his Presence.  God knows I couldn’t find a single record of the crystals fusing unless all six fragments were present, and even then, they never stayed fused for more than a few seconds.  Remember the way they fell apart on the bridge?”  Amanda nodded, looking pale and upset in the torchlight.  “This is more than just the two you originally had, though,” Ben said. 

“There’s been a few additions since then,” James said, and laughed.  “God.  It sounds completely insane.  But…they seem to be finding their way to me on purpose.”

“How fortunate,” said a new voice, bitter and cruel.  “It has saved me all kinds of effort.  Take the crystals off, Mr. May.  Lay them on the floor and back away, please.  Or I assure you, I _will_ open fire.  And not all of you are capable of resurrection.”


	11. Chapter 11

As one, they all swiveled their heads to face the alternate entrance of the cave. 

A handsome young man stood there.  He was dressed quite simply in tan trousers and a white shirt, comfortable brown loafers on his feet.  In Seacouver, you would have taken him for a Microsoft programmer; in New York or San Francisco, a waiter.  Or possibly you’d take him for a waiter even in the midst of the Namibian wilderness—James certainly had.  Because the hands that were currently holding a machine gun were the same hands he’d last seen pouring a beer at his and Jeremy’s table.  “ _Giovanni?”_ James, Jeremy, and Richard all exclaimed.

“You know him?” Ben demanded.

“We hired him to be a sort of comic servant character for our Beach Buggy film,” Jeremy said.  “We sent him up on a parasail yesterday morning.  Hell, he drew my bloody bath the night before that.”  He placed his hands on his hips, drawing himself up to every inch of his imposing height.  “I do hope you’ll realize you’ll never work in this industry again, my lad.  Robbing your boss at machine gun point is not the best way to build a CV.”

“Oh, don’t patronize me, you ridiculous ass,” Giavanni retorted.  “I never wanted to be a part of your damn industry.  I only took this job at all because I thought it might bring me closer to the crystals.  Though, believe me, actually working for you during these last few days?  Almost enough to make me give up the whole plan.”  He shook his head pityingly.  “You three really are insufferable, you know that?  I bet you don’t even know my real name.”

“No, no, we do,”  James answered.  “You’re Kevin Russell.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s right.”  James nodded.  “Kevin Russel, the youngest son of two of the nicest people Dawson there has ever known.  The one who had such a big crush on Joe’s daughter Amy while she was still at school.”  It was hard to guess who gaped at him more—Dawson, Ben, Amanda, his two co-presenters, or Giavanni/Kevin himself.  James took a few steps forward, hands raised placatingly.  “I’m the quiet one, remember,” he said.  “So that means I’m the one who listens.  And I’d like to listen to you now, Kevin.”

“Yeah, right!”

“No, I would.  I really, really would,” James said.  “Because listening is how you learn things, Kevin, and there’s several things I’d like to learn.  For starters:  was Amy the person who told you about the crystals in the first place?” Giavanni said nothing, but his jaw tightened tellingly.  “No, she wouldn’t have, would she,” James said musingly.  “Because she threw you over for that Immortal bloke, what’s his name.  Quiche something?  Well, it doesn’t really matter, you know who I mean.  The one she helped to take all those heads in Paris…”

“James,” Jeremy said warningly.

“Don’t interrupt me now, you cock.  I’m on a role.”  Jeremy made a small noise of protest, but he nodded and stepped back slightly.  It was the same move he made in the studio whenever he ceded the stage to James.  “Keith!  That’s it.  Keith,” James said, ignoring Jeremy.  “But somehow, you must have found out about the crystals anyway, eh Kevin?  Maybe you overhead Keith and Amy talking about it one day while you were jealously eavesdropping on them.  Or maybe Amy even told you everything herself: all about her and Keith, and how they planned to reassemble the Stone.  Must have driven you mad, knowing that the only real difference between you and the man she chose _over_ you was the fact that he was Immortal.  Especially when there was a way to fix that, tantalizingly within reach.” James took another few steps forward, cocking his head to one side.  “Just how many crystals had Keith managed to collect before he killed Amy, anyway?  Just the single one that my friend Ben over there found on his body after he took his head?  Or were there more?  One he left at his flat that you stole after his death, maybe? Although…” James frowned thoughtfully.  “I suppose it didn’t have to be theft, really.  It’s always possible that your crystal just found its way to you later, on its own.  The same way that mine kept finding their way to me.”

“Hold on.  Wait a minute, mate,” Richard protested loudly.  He was wearing his very best I’m-a-stupid-idiot-who-needs-everything-explained-to-me face.  “Are you saying that Giavanni here has a crystal, too?  _Giavanni_?”

Kevin smiled brilliantly.  Never allowing the gun to waver, he raised his hand and undid his shirt.  Another crystal fragment—this one set in silver…gleamed in the blue crystal mother-light.  “Amy had it,” he said.  “Keith had two, altogether.  He gave Amy one to wear.  She thought it was _sooooo romantic_.”  Kevin rolled his eyes.  “I took it from her jewelry box the day she died.  I was her _best friend_ after all.  Naturally, I’d had a key to her flat for years.”  He cocked his head curiously to once side.  “But how did you guess?”

James shrugged.  “Don’t know,” he said honestly.  “Two reasons, I suppose.  First, anyone who was grownup enough to be in love with Joe’s daughter in 2000 has to be at least in his late thirties by now—and you don’t look it.  Therefore, something must have been helping you stay young.  A crystal carried in your pocket for fifteen years might just have done the trick.  Second…”  He sighed.  “You’re here, Kevin.  Now.  And for whatever reason, the crystals seem to have decided that this is the place they want me to reassemble them.  So it makes sense that they would have used you to bring one more piece to me.”

Giavanni’s smile gleamed.  It was almost as crazy-bright as his wild eyes.  “Or perhaps they just used _you_ to bring them to _me,”_ he said.  “I’ve been following the damn things for years, after all.  Time and time again I’ve seen some Immortal crazy or other almost succeed in putting them together, but they’ve never gotten _my_ piece, not once in fifteen years.  I think that’s a pretty good indication that I’m the one the crystals really want, don’t you?”  He planted his feet more firmly against the stone floor, pointing the machine gun directly at James.  “Put your pretty necklace on the floor, Mr. May, and slowly back away.  All I want is the crystal. I don’t really want to hurt you, or any of your friends.  But had no doubt that I will.”

“James,” Ben said.  His voice was urgent, and his eyes unfathomably sad.  “James.  You can’t.  You can’t let a man like him reassemble the Stone.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find he can,” Giavanni purred.  He aimed the gun upwards, and squeezed off a few rounds. 

The result was spectacular.  Tiny bits of crystal broke off and flew everywhere, clattering to the ground like broken glass.  Everyone gasped and covered their heads.  Except for Giavanni.  “I’m going to count to ten,” he said evenly.  “If the crystals aren’t on the floor by then, I’ll open fire…and I won’t be aiming at rocks this time.  Got it?  Good.  One…two…three…”

“Kevin,” Joe’s voice rang out desperately.  “You loved my daughter, once.  Is this what Amy would have wanted you to do?”

James thought he’d never seen anything as terrifying as the insane glint in Giavanni’s eyes.  “Are you kidding, old man?  Amy would have _cheered me on_ ,” he said.  “But it doesn’t really matter.  She’s dead now, after all.  I don’t have to be.  Not today, not ever.  And that’s more than worth killing for.”  He resumed counting.  “Four…five…”

And a lot of things happened very quickly.

James had known that Jeremy had been moving for several minutes.  His earlier “James,” hadn’t really been a protest, but rather a signal.  With the same subtle, silent communication of posture and voice that allowed them to work so well together in front of a crowd, he’d asked James to keep Giavanni talking.  Richard had picked up on it, too.  His stupid question about the crystals hadn’t been stupid at all, but merely another means of distraction.  Slowly but surely, Jeremy had taken a few steps sideways, until the right half of his body was hidden from Giavanni’s view within the shadow of a boulder.  Equally slowly, his hand had crept into his jacket pocket.  James had no idea what Jeremy wanted from his pocket until Giavanni reached the count of four.  Then, he suddenly remembered:  the gun.  The same gun Jeremy had held on Anansi.  Jeremy still had it.  And when Giavanni counted five, he suddenly slid it out of his pocket and fired.

Giavanni staggered back.  Looking very startled, he raised one hand to his chest.  Then he fell to his knees.  And as he fell, his other hand spasmed on the machine gun’s trigger. 

A rain of bullets quickly spread through the cave.

James felt something fizz by his forehead and ping off a crystal behind him, but there was no time to react.  As the thunder of bullets and the roaring rain of falling crystals filled the cave, both Richard Ryan and Ben dove for Giavanni, braving the bullets in order to wrest the machine gun from his dying grasp.  It worked.  The gun stopped firing.  Dawson eased himself out from under Amanda, who had thrown her body protectively over his.  His face alive with worry.  “Methos?  Richie?” he demanded.  “Are you hit?  What about you, Amanda sweetheart?”

“Not seriously,” Amanda said.  “Flesh wounds only, and they’re already starting to heal—I think the cave is helping, somehow.  Richie?”

“I’m good, too.  Just a couple of grazes that are already nearly gone.”  He chuckled ruefully.  “No dying for me today.”

“Nor for me,” Ben said.  He held up his hand, which was extremely bloody.  James almost vomited when he saw that Ben had an actual hole through the palm.  However, even as James watched, it started mending, knitting itself together in a gushy, squirmy anatomical craft project that he was fairly sure he would never forget.  “I agree with Amanda about the cave—it seems to be giving all our normal Immortal healing powers a boost.”  Ben pushed himself away from Giavanni’s body.  “But how about the mortals in the room? Joe…”

“I’m fine,” Joe said quickly.  “Not so much as a scratch.”

“I’m fine, too,” James answered.  “Richard?”

“I wasn’t hit.  But I will need to change my trousers,” Richard said shakily.  “Jeremy?”

All eyes turned to the tall presenter.  He looked very pale.  “Did I kill him?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes,” Ben answered.  Jeremy swayed slightly, clutching his stomach as if he was about to be sick.  “Jeremy,” Ben continued, speaking with great gentleness.  “It was a very clean shot.  He wouldn’t have felt it.  Trust me.  I know.” 

Jeremy nodded, but he swayed again.  James watched as Dawson and Amanda and Joe all exchanged worried looks. Dawson took a hesitant step forward. “Try to remember this,” he said gruffly.  “If you hadn’t shot when you did, he would have killed us all.  And God only knows what would have happened to mankind in general if he managed to reunite the Stone.  You didn’t just save everyone in this cave, Jeremy.  You probably saved the entire world.”

Jeremy took a deep, shuddering breath.  “Well, that’s good,” he said.  “I always wanted to save the world.  I’m glad I finally got the chance.  Because I think I’m going to need a little help, now.”

He pulled his hands away from the curve of his belly, revealing what was unmistakably a bullet hole in his shirt.  And a dark red, rapidly spreading stain.

***

For the rest of his life, James would remember the next few moments only in sounds, not in pictures.  He heard Richard’s panicked, “Oh, god.  Okay, Jez.  No worries.  With all your blubber, I doubt the bullet hit anything vital.  I’ll just call the crew for help…they’ll send in a helicopter, air-lift you to the nearest hospital ASAP.  Just hang in there…” followed by his broken, despairing, “Oh god oh god I forgot— _no cell signal_.”  James also heard Ben’s hurried, “Joe.  Help me get him lying down,” before the Immortal started firing off a rapid stream of doctor-speak, involving pressures and the locations of important abdominal arteries and the need to constantly monitor Jeremy’s pulse.  It was doctor-speak Joe not only heard but seemed to understand, as he simply began doing whatever Ben told him to without needing to ask for clarification, which, much later, would make James wonder: had Joe trained as medic, back in Vietnam?  Or had he simply led such an interesting life in the intervening decades that treating gunshot wounds had become second nature?  Second nature it seemed to be; the old mortal’s voice was calm as he directed Richard to take off his coat and roll it into a pillow for Jezza’s head, and calmer still as he translated Ben’s obscure bits of doctor-speak into a language Richard could understand.  “There.  Keep your fingers just there,” Joe said, pressing Richard’s fingers to Jeremy’s wrist.  “Now bring up the clock on your phone—perfect.  Count the number of beats in ten seconds and multiply by six.  Let us know if it speeds up or slows down.  That’s it.  You’re doing great.” 

James heard cloth tearing as Ben yanked apart Jeremy’s shirt, and he heard Amanda’s and Richie’s shocked murmurs.  But James he didn’t look down at the wound himself.  Something else had attracted his attention.  Something so big and strange he couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

The Mother Stones were flashing.

Not just glowing, as they had since the sunlight had left the cave _._ Flashing.  Flashing like a police car, giving off strobes of light that seemed to fill the cave…and at the same time, managed to fill up James’s entire ragged soul with peaceful calm.  He appeared to be the only one who could see them, though.  The rest of the company just went on bustling around Jeremy as if nothing was happening at all—even when the stones doubled their wattage, dazzling James with their light.  Mesmerized, he took a shaky step toward them, hand outstretched.  The only thing that stopped him from going to them was the only thing that could have—Jeremy’s voice.  “Oh, for god’s sake, Hammond, stop poking at my wrist like a teenage virgin who can’t figure out where his thing’s supposed to go,” he said.  His voice was thick with pain, but filled with love anyway.  “I can see how badly I’m bleeding, you moron.  I know a major artery’s been hit.  Keeping track of my pulse can’t make any difference now.  Just…just hold my hand.”  He raised his voice slightly.  “James?  Could you come here as well, please?”

James did. It took him a moment to see clearly again, his eyes had been so dazzled by the stones. When they recovered, he saw way more blood than he’d expected, given how shockingly tiny the hole had been in Jeremy’s shirt.  He couldn’t see if the corresponding hole in Jeremy’s skin was any larger, since Ben had stripped off his sweatshirt and folded it into a pad he was pressing to the wound.  But James could see the way the multiple layers of fabric had already been soaked through, blood liberally staining Ben’s hands and even trickling down Jeremy’s side to puddle on the floor.  The only thing that shone more wetly than the blood was Richard’s tear-streaked face.  Joe silently moved out of the way, and James knelt down at Jeremy’s other side, taking his other hand.  Jeremy shivered.  “No regrets,” he said firmly, looking up into both their faces.  “None at all.  It’s been the most fantastic ride any man could ask for.  Remember that.  All right?”

“Jeremy,” Richard gasped brokenly.  He pressed Jeremy’s hand to his cheek.

“Nun-uh,” Jeremy chided gently.  “None of that.  Just…” He frowned, forehead creasing in perplexity.  “Crap.  I’m trying to think of all the last minute things I need to tell you.”

“Jeremy.  For god’s sake, don’t talk.  Save your strength.”

“For what?” Jeremy said bluntly, and Richard let out another sob.  “There’s not much to say, really,” Jeremy went on, sounding a bit bemused by that fact.  “The lawyers have my will all in order. Most everything’s going to the kids, of course, but a couple of the houses and all the cars are supposed to be divided between the two of you.  Oh.  There’s an airplane I bought a few weeks ago, James—I was going to surprise you with it on your next birthday.  I don’t think it ever got formally written in with the bequests, so make sure it actually gets to you, okay?  Not handed to the kids with the rest of the not-car stuff.  Other than that…” He laughed weakly.  “I already know you’ll both look after each other, and do your best to keep my kids from repeating too many of my mistakes.  I also already know that you’ll finish out the contract with Amazon, make two more seasons of the greatest not-a-car show this planet’s ever seen.  After that, you’ll probably just want to do your own programs, and that’s fine with me.  Just...don’t make _too_ many depressing educational films, all right?  Have some fun every now and then.  And…” He smiled suddenly.  “I’m expecting you two to throw together the best memorial montage _ever_ for me.  Don’t let Andy do it; he’ll get all sentimental at the last minute and cut all the clips where I look too much of a fool.  You two will get the balance right.”  He gave both their hands a squeeze and, despite the fact that his face was rapidly going gray, managed to look very self-satisfied.  “You know.  Leave the audience laughing in the end.”

“You’re not going to die, you cock,” James said shakily.  “Ben.  Where is Giavanni’s crystal?”

“It fell on the ground over there. Richie, can you get it?” The young Immortal moved instantly, finding the crystal and handing it to James without comment.  “Look, James, I know what you’re trying to do,” Ben said softly.  “But it’s not going to work.  Even if you put all five of the fragments together, that still won’t be enough to heal Jeremy of a wound like this.  I’m sorry.”

Dawson cleared his throat.  “Well, actually…the sixth piece is with me.” 

Ben snapped his head around, staring at Dawson.  “What?!?!”

“Yeah.” Joe shrugged.  “It’s the one you sent me after Amy died, Methos.  The one you took from John Keith.”

“But—“ James had never seen Ben look so flabbergasted.  “But…you told Amanda that you’d thrown it back into the Seine!”

“No,” Joe corrected.  “I told Amanda that I was _going to_ throw it back into the Seine.  I even got so far as standing with it in my hand on the bank.  But when it actually got down to it, I just couldn’t.”

“Why?” 

“God help us.  Five thousand years old, and still dumb as an ox,” Joe said.  “Because _you_ were the one who gave it to me, you idiot.”  Ben flushed bright rosy red.  “I’m glad I hung onto it,” Joe said.  “I didn’t know the fragments could affect ordinary mortals at all, then.  I just kept it because it was the last thing you gave me before you disappeared.  But who knows.  Maybe having the crystal was enough to tip the balance and keep me alive, when I had my heart attack.”  He laboriously got to his feet, grabbing onto one of the boulders for balance.  “Amanda.  Give me a hand, will you, sweetheart?  It’s hidden in my left prosthetic.”

Amanda quickly hurried over, dropping to her knees at Joe’s feet so she could unscrew his prosthetic foot.  A second later she had the final crystal in her hand.  Meanwhile, Ben—still pressing down on the pad covering Jeremy’s wounds—looked deeply into Dawson’s eyes.  “I love you,” he said simply.

“I know,” Dawson answered.  “I love you, too.  I always have.”

Ben looked like he was about to say more, but Jeremy cleared his throat.  “Erm, not that I want to interrupt this touching scene,” he said dryly.  “But I’m the one who’s about to die a  very painful and bloody death, here.  Perhaps you could postpone the rest of the reunion until AFTER I’ve been magically healed?”

Ben smirked.  “Certainly. Amanda?” 

“What?  Oh, yes.  Of course.”  She smiled suddenly, regarding the crystal in her palm.  “I think Rebecca would have been glad to see this moment.”  And she tossed the fragment to James.

James caught it.  He really shouldn’t have been able to.  Not only was he sadly lacking in the manly-catching-skill department, but the Mother Stones had chosen that moment to flair brightly once again, completely whiting out his vision.  But the crystal found its way to his palm anyway, as if it had flown there under its own power.  James clutched it tightly for a second.  “Right,” he said.  “Let’s do this.”  And he placed his necklace on the floor of the cavern, fitting the last two pieces together.

Nothing happened.

“They’re not fusing,” Richard said.  His voice was rising in a panic.  “James, they’re not fusing!”

“Let me see.”  Amanda had snapped Joe’s foot back into place.  Now she shouldered her way past Richard, only to stare at the decided un-fused crystals.  “They really aren’t fusing,” she said in blank astonishment.  “Why…”

James shuddered.  Behind him, the Mother Stones gave yet another pulse of light, this one bright enough to leave James seeing stars.  He was the only one who flinched, though.  “You can’t see them, can you,” he said.  “None of you can.  Only me.”

“See what, James?”  Richard sounded very worried.  James ignored him.  He gave Jeremy’s hand a distracted pat before he dropped it and gathered up the crystal fragments, walking slowly toward the huge crystal pillars.  Behind him, Jeremy started to cough, a horrible, desperate sound. Richard’s voice became desperate.  “James!” he shouted.

“I understand now,” James said softly.  “It’s got to be different this time.”  He looked back at his beloveds, an odd smile on his face.  “They’ve always felt bad, you know.”

Richard swallowed.  Clearly, he believed that one of his lovers was dying, and the other was losing his mind.  “ _Who_ has felt bad, James?”

James nodded at the pillars.  “The Mother Stones.”  Now that he was closer, he could hear their light, just as much as he could see it.  They sang with a beautiful song, just as the waterfall had.  Wordless; the song was older than humanity, far older than spoken language.  But James understood it nonetheless.  “They’ve always regretted the way Anansi manipulated their magic, and all the trouble the Methuselah Stone has caused in the world.”  Jeremy coughed again, sickeningly.  “Don’t worry, Jez,” James said.  “They have no intention of leaving you to die, not when you carried two of them so nicely.  But they aren’t just going to stick around to cause more chaos, either.  Something else must be done.”  He smiled, a little sadly.  “And that requires a sacrifice.”

“James!”  Ben sounded more frightened than James had imagined he was capable of.  Somehow, some way, he had an inkling of what James was about to do.  James had no doubt that if he hadn’t literally been holding Jeremy’s life in his hands, Ben would have rushed across the cave to pull James back.  Since he couldn’t, he threw him his words instead.  “James, you can’t.  You don’t know what it will do to you.  You don’t know what it will cost…”

“It’s all right,” James answered.  “It’s the only way, Ben.  Besides.  I never _wanted_ to be Immortal, anyway.”  He cupped his hands around the fragments, smiling happily.  Now that he was so close to the Mother Stones, it felt like the crystals were squirming under his fingertips, just like a basket of excited puppies.  “It’s all right,” he said again, this time to them.  “I’ve got a brand new Quickening, never once used.  All that potential just for you.  You can do whatever you want to with it.  You can even use it take yourselves completely out of the world.  Just promise me you’ll heal Jeremy before you do, okay?”

The Mother Crystal pulsed a final time.  The crystal fragments lit up like six very happy blue fireflies.  And James poured everything he could have been into their hearts.

***

Within the sudden darkness that surrounded him, James heard running water, and an echo of sweet, crystalline voices.  _We’re sorry…_

_We’re sorry…_

_We’re so sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry._

_But it had to be this way.  (This way.  This way. This way way way way way...)_

_***  
_James woke up feeling…

Well.  Not all that different, actually.  Stiff, definitely, since he’d clearly spent quite a bit of time unconscious on the very hard cave floor.  But even the stiffness ebbed away when he opened his eyes and realized: during his time in the darkness, he and Jeremy had swapped places. James was now the one lying on the ground with Jeremy and Richard each kneeling over him and holding one of his hands.  And Jeremy looked…well.  Quite marvelous, really.  Oh, his clothes were still a horrible, terrible, bloody wreck.  But he was upright, complexion hearty and glowing once again, and he looked…healthy.  Better than he had in years, to be honest.  Some of the finer lines seemed to have erased themselves from his face, and there was a lively twinkle in his eyes James hadn’t seen in decades.  It softened into a deep tenderness the moment he realized James was awake.  “Well, well.  Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

On James’s other side, Richard let out a humungous sigh of relief.  “Oh, thank heaven,” he said.  “You finally all back with us, mate?”

“I think so.”  Funny.  James really never had wanted Immortality, and had never even suspected that his nascent, fledgling, Pre-Immortal Quickening was even there.  Now that it was gone, though…he could feel its loss.  Some kind of connection had been broken.  It didn’t feel bad, though.  Just different.  “How long was I unconscious?”

“Almost four hours.”

“Bloody Nora.  The crew will have started beating the bushes looking for us by now.”  He looked Jeremy up and down.  “So.  Looks like you’re all better, then.”

“Yeah.  Looks like I still have first dibs on driving the new Bugatti next series after all.  I know you and Richard will be terribly disappointed.”  Jeremy’s face sobered.  He squeezed James’s hand with more pressure.  “Seriously, James,” he said softly.  “Ben and Amanda explained what you did for me…what you gave up.  You’re not even a baby Immortal anymore.  You’re just plain, ordinary James.”

“Thank god,” James said fervently, and Jeremy threw back his head and laughed.  Richard, though, still looked worried.  He, too, squeezed James’s hand.  “Did it hurt?” he asked quietly.  “Are you in any pain now?”

James shook his head.  “No, not pain, not exactly,” he answered.  “It’s more…remember when you were a kid, and you lost a tooth?  The way your tongue kept going over and over the blank space whether you wanted it to or not?  That’s what it’s like.”  Both Richard and Jeremy looked very sad.  James wrinkled his nose at them.  “None of that, you cocks.  I’m going to be just fine.  And I’m very relieved that I’ll never have to cope with another sword-wielding-whackjob again.  Speaking of which…”  He pushed himself up into a sit.  Jeremy and Richard both scrambled to assist, but it wasn’t really necessary—James felt fine.  Not even dizzy.  “What happened to the crystals?  Did they vanish in a puff of smoke, or what?”

Both his beloveds suddenly looked quite…constrained.  “Ah,” Jeremy said.  “Well.”

“Yeah.”  Richard scratched his forehead awkwardly.  “That’s causing quite a bit of consternation, actually.”

“Consternation?”

“Yes.”  Jeremy got to his feet, held out his hand.  “Come on.  You’d best see for yourself, I think.”

He pulled James to his feet…again, it was help that wasn’t necessary at all, but James let him do it anyway…and led him back to the Mother Stones.  Ben and Richie and Amanda and Joe were standing at their base, arguing in a tired, frustrated sort of way that told James they’d already been at it for quite some time.  “But I already told you,” Ben was saying, in a strained tone that made it clear he’d made the point more than once.  “This doesn’t actually solve anything, Amanda.  It just makes the original problem worse _._ Six times worse, to be exact.”

“Oh, pooh.”  Amanda pouted.  “You’re such an old fuddy-duddy sometimes, Methos.  Why can’t you just be happy for once?  I thought we were going to lose the Methuselah Stone for good.  Instead, we now have six of them.  What’s not to be happy about that?”  As she talked, she waved her hands and moved aside slightly.  Revealing six perfect stone spheres, all lying in a line on the cave floor.

James gasped. 

“Surprised?” Jeremy said.  He spoke quietly, so as not to interrupt the bickering Immortals.  “So were we.”

“I—“ James shook his head.  He was remembering new things now, things the crystalline voices had whispered to him along with their apology in the darkness.  There seemed to be an entire flood of information in his brain, just sitting there waiting for him to look at it, rather like an e-mail patiently waiting to be read.  For now, though, his head was still swimming with surprise.  “What happened?”

“Well, that’s the million-pound question, really,” Jeremy answered.  “Near as we can figure out…when you gave up your Quickening, instead of using its energy to destroy itself, the Stone decided to…multiply, I guess.  We watched it happen.  First, they healed me—a very odd feeling, let me tell you.  And then the cluster broke apart.  But then each of the six fragments sort of…flashed, like lightning.  Very bright.  Very dazzling.  We were all blinded. And when we could see clearly enough again to figure what happened…suddenly there were six crystal orbs, just like you see.  Every single one complete.”  He winced slightly as Amanda, still arguing with Ben, let out a particularly shrill curse.  “They’ve been doing that for _hours,_ now.  The whole time you were unconscious.”

“Yeah,” Richard agreed.  “Some of the curse words that have been flying around here surprised even me.  I guess when you live for thousands of years, you really get a chance to refine your profanity.”  He looked at James.  “Say, did you have any idea that Ben was over five thousand years old?  Five _thousand?_ I thought maybe he was a century or two at the most.”  He shivered.  “I can’t even imagine.  And now I’m even more curious to know what he was like in bed than I already was.  But I won’t ask you.”

James hid a smirk.  “You could always try asking Dawson.  But somehow I don’t think he’s the type to kiss and tell, either.”  Another barrage of angry voices ricocheted around the room.  “God.  They really are going at it,” James said.  “What seems to be the main point of contention?”

“What to do with six shiny new Methuselah Stones, of course,” Jeremy answered. “Amanda simply wants six of us to take one of the stones home and call it a day.  Richie has graciously agreed not to take one; he says he’s doing well enough in the Game as it is.  But Dawson there has gotten his knickers into a serious twist over what having six Stones on the loose might do to the balance of power in the Game.  And your five-thousand-year-old one-night-stand over there thinks we should abandon the Stones altogether and run to the far corners of the world before the word gets out.  He says all we have to do is look at recent history to see how much evil people were willing to commit just to get their hands on one Stone.  He thinks the bloodshed will increase exponentially with half a dozen.”  Jeremy shuddered.  “I have to say, I think I agree with him on that.  I’m in favor of chucking all six of the damn things into the nearest volcano, myself.  But…as Amanda pointed out…if they’re made of the same stuff as the original fragments, there’s no guarantee that they’ll stay there.  The volcano would probably just erupt and spew them back out again for some other poor bastards to find.  So…”

“Relax, Jeremy.  No volcanoes will be necessary.”

“You know something.”  It wasn’t a question, but a statement.  Jeremy eyed James with great hope.  “What do you know?”

“I—“  That mysterious e-mail had finally opened itself inside James’s head and unrolled its contents.  “Just that the crystals had been planning this for a very, very long time. And that they’ve made a much better job of it than we’re giving them credit for.”

“Really?”  Richard looked as hopeful as Jeremy.  James supposed that listening to Ben spout worst-case-scenarios for hours had taken its natural toll.  “It can all still turn out all right, you think?”

“I know it will.”  _Six crystals,_ James thought to himself.  _What do you know?  If Richard and Jeremy and I all end up carrying one…well, Richard may end up having five thousand years of his own in which to refine his own profanity, and Jeremy will get just as much time to make fun of my shirts.  I wonder if either of them has figured that out yet?_ Judging from the anxious looks on both his lover’s faces, they hadn’t.  James hid a smile, then held out both his hands.  “Come,” he said.  “Let’s end this argument before it comes to swords.”

“Don’t think it could,” Richard said shakily.  “They’re not supposed to fight on Holy Ground, right?  And this cave is about as holy as it gets.”  But he let James take his hand anyway.   They rounded the Mother Stones together.

“Joe’s right,” Ben was saying heatedly.  “The only thing that’s kept Immortal psychopaths like Kronos and the Kurgan under control at all over the millennia was the Game.  What happens if the Stones remove that check on total Immortal power? Can you imagine what would have happened if all four of the Horsemen, say, suddenly got their hands on one and became invincible?  Completely impossible to defeat and behead?”

“You _WERE_ a bloody horseman, Methos!!!!”  Amanda thundered.

“THAT’S WHY I KNOW WE COULDN’T BE TRUSTED!” Ben shouted back.  “Amanda, I’m telling you.  The best thing we can do for the world is to dynamite this cave _right now_ so that the Stones are buried forever.  And even then, we’ll have to spend the rest of our Immortal lives watching the news for any hint that one’s resurfaced.  Because these Stones?  They represent ultimate power.  And no human being, mortal or Immortal, can be trusted with that.  Believe me.  I know!”

“Actually,” James interrupted calmly, “I think you probably could be, Ben.  But it’s kind of a moot point.”  He nodded at the row of spheres.  They were so surprisingly _small_ , considering the potential they held.  “The Methuselah Stones don’t work the way you think they do.  They never did.  Even when there was only one of them.”

“James!  You’re all right!”

Instantly, Amanda was in James’s arms, favoring him with a hug that was even stronger than the one she’d given him when Richard freed her from the cable ties.  Dawson and Richie walked over to him as well, patting him on the back.  But Ben just stayed where he was.  “James,” he said.  “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Why?”

“You’re mortal, now.  I can’t hear you at all.”  Ben’s voice was naked with grief.  “I’m sorry.”

“It really is okay,” James said, giving Amanda a squeeze and detangling himself from her arms with an effort.  “I was never cut out for the Game.  But there’s something even better waiting for me, now.”  He nodded at the crystal spheres.  “The Stones?  They were never intended to help Immortals win the Game.  They won’t make you invincible.  They never could.”

“But…”

“No, Ben.  The Methuselah Stone was created for one purpose only, I’m afraid.  But I’m not surprised that the legend got confused.  Let me guess…you’ve been doing lots of research.  So you’ve probably found several old legends and stories that say something like the Stone confers the greatest gift possible upon the Immortal who holds it.  Am I right?”  Ben nodded slowly, his lips pressed tight.  “Well, there you go,” James said.  “All of you bloody fools thought the greatest gift possible was to win your stupid Game.  But that wasn’t it.  That wasn’t it all.”  He looked back fondly at Jeremy and Richard.  “The _greatest_ gift was to give Immortality to someone else, someone who wasn’t born to it.  To be able to spend eternity with a mortal mate.”

Pin drop silence reigned. After a moment, Jeremy cleared his throat.  “What are you saying, James?”

 _Ah,_ James thought.  _He’s finally starting to get it.  And they call_ me _Captain Slow._ “Kaya didn’t know about the Game,” he said.  “She lived for thousands of years, but she spent it all in one place, the same little village she’d been a mortal in.  In all that time she’d only ever met one other Immortal at all, Anansi.  He knew about the Game, but he didn’t tell her—he thought her innocence was too precious, I think.  Maybe he was right.  I don’t think Kaya could have done what she did, given up her Quickening to create the Stone for Abeni, if she’d been carrying the Quickenings of other, greedier Immortals.  But I’m digressing.  The point is…Kaya made her original sacrifice for just one reason.  To allow her mortal beloved to live.”  He nodded again at the row of spheres.  “The stone that was made from her Quickening remembered.  And that’s what it has always wanted.  To make it so an Immortal would never have to lose his or her mortal love again.” 

“But the fragments made Immortals stronger, too,” Amanda argued.  “The fragment Rebecca gave me helped me win my first few Challenges, James.  The effect didn’t last, I grant you.  But I felt it.  I did.”

“Placebo effect,” James said gently.  “You thought it would help, and so it did.  I doubt it would have done anything at all if you hadn’t been so well trained.”  Amanda bit down on her lip…but she looked thoughtful.  “No,” James continued.  “The only people…the only beings…the Stone has ever affected have been mortal.  That’s the only power it has.”  He looked at Ben.  “So you don’t have to worry about power-hungry Immortals slaughtering each other to get one to win the Game, Ben.  It wouldn’t do them any good.”

“I don’t know,” Ben said slowly.  “The chance of saving a mortal lover from death…that’s pretty damn precious too, James.  There might be even _more_ Immortals willing to kill for that.”  He looked at Joe Dawson.  For a long moment, their gazes locked, held…and then Ben looked reluctantly away.  “And now there are six of the damn things.  Five more opportunities for blood shed than there were before.”

“Ah,” James said.  “But the stone has _learned_ a few things since it was first created, Ben.”  Ben gave him a puzzled frown.  James spread his hands.  “Kaya was innocent,” he said softly.  “Her Quickening was innocent, too.  It didn’t understand jealousy, or envy.  Didn’t even understand how Anansi, who said he loved her, could try to hurt her instead.  But it learned.  It was brutal, but it learned.”  For the first time, he felt a pang of sadness.  “And…well, my Quickening is part of the Stones now, too.  I’m not…I’m not as experienced as I could be.  But I’m hardly an innocent, either.  So when you put my energy with Kaya’s…”  He shrugged.  “The original Stone had millennia to learn the way less-innocent human beings really worked, and to pick up new tricks for dealing with them.  Now that there are six, they aren’t going to make the same mistakes.”  And he knelt suddenly, holding out his hands.

One of the crystal spheres rolled directly into them.

“James,” Jeremy said, rather dazed.  “Are you trying to tell me that you are a _bloody telekinetic_ now?”

James snickered.  “No,” he said.  “And it’s a rotten shame, too. I’d love never to drop a screw or lose a spring when I’m reassembling something ever again.  But no, I can only do it with one object.  This object.  This Stone.”  He looked around at the astonished faces.  “The crystals have had enough of people fighting over them,” he said.  “They’ve decided that from now on, they are going to _choose_ who carries them.  And they will only work for that one person.  No one else.”  He nodded at Ben.  “So you see…there will never be any need for anyone to fight over them again.  There’s no point.  If they are stolen or wrested away by force…they just won’t work.”

“James.”  Richard’s voice was soft.  “It’s, err, it’s obvious that that one has chosen you.”  He gestured at the stone James was carrying.  James was rather startled to see that he’d cradled it in his arms, and was actually rubbing his fingers across the smooth curve of its top, a bit like he’d pet his cat.   He didn’t have time to be embarrassed by this, though.  Because Richard was speaking again, a wild hope in his eyes.  “Do you think…do you think me and Jeremy…”

“Try it and see.”

The two presenters looked at each other for a long moment.  Then Jeremy sighed.  “Well, it doesn’t seem possible that one could have chosen _me,_ ” he said.  “But what the hell.  I’ve never been afraid of looking like a fool before.”  And he knelt.

A second sphere detached itself from the line to roll to him.

Richard’s mouth was open.  “I—er—“ he said, and started to kneel himself.  The third sphere rolled to him so quickly he didn’t get a chance to hold out his hands.  It just banged impatiently into his knees.  Richard scooped it up.  “It…it feels like coming home,” he said wonderingly.  “Like something that was always supposed to belong to me.  James.”  And now there was pure joy on his face, so radiant and unbelieving James’s heart throbbed.  He understood.  He could barely believe it, either.  “Does this mean…the three of us are immortal now?  Not with a big ‘I’, but with a small?  We can actually live forever?  Together?”

Through the tears in his eyes, James managed to nod.  “We’ll be presenting a show about bloody _spaceships_ one day,” he said. 

And Jeremy and Richard promptly swept him into the hug of all hugs.

***

What with one thing and another, it took James quite some time to be fully cognizant of his surroundings again.  When he was able to re-focus on the cave, he found Ben and Richie and Dawson all clustered around Amanda, urging her to reach out for a sphere.  She was shaking her head, looking sad.  “No,” she said.  “I don’t think one of those crystals is meant for me.”

“Why on earth not?”  Joe demanded.

“Because there’s no one…there’s never been anyone for me, not like that.  I mean, I’ve been married more than a few times over the centuries, but I haven’t…”  She took a deep breath, tried again.  “There’s never been anyone I’d want to make immortal, Joe.  That I felt strongly enough about to want to remove from their proper place in time.  Because even without the Game, living forever isn’t easy; you’d have to love someone _an awful lot_ to make up for outliving your family and your culture.  You’d have to fit together so well you could become the other person’s everything.  There’s never been anyone who…”  Once again, she trailed off helplessly, and James was startled to see that her eyes were red with tears.  “I don’t expect you to understand, Joe.  You’re way too much of a romantic.  But Methos does.  Don’t you, Methos?”

“All too well,” Ben answered.  He stepped in close and touched his hand to her cheek, smiling down at her fondly.  “Try anyway.”

“But…”

“Just because you haven’t met that person yet doesn’t mean you never will,” Ben said.  “Look how long I had to wait to find Joe.  You’ve barely gotten started on your own hunt, little vixen.”  Amanda sniffled.  “Besides,” Ben continued, “I can guarantee it…the world is full of people who would like to have a chance at spending eternity with you.  I suspect the crystals know that, too.  So go on.”  He butted his forehead to hers affectionately.  “Give it a try.  What do you have to lose?”

Amanda looked like she was close to breaking down completely.  But she nodded and knelt down, hands outstretched.  And a sphere all but flew into her hands. 

“Well,” Amanda said, after a long moment of silence.  “That’s, um… that’s…well.”  She looked back at Ben and Dawson, who were now standing with their arms around each other’s waists, beaming at her happily.  “Oh, stop looking so smug,” she said.  “It may be thousands of years before I find the right person to give this to, you know.”

“I know,” Dawson answered cheerfully.  “But isn’t it good to know it will be worth the wait in the end?”  He tugged insistently at Ben’s sweatshirt.  “Methos.   Go on.  It’s our turn.”

“Yes,” Ben agreed.  “It finally is, isn’t it.”  And he slipped his arm out from around Joe and knelt.

Nothing happened.

They waited, and waited, while the long seconds ticked past.  Finally, Dawson said, his voice low and worried, “Methos…”

“It’s okay, Joe.” Ben said, straightening back up.  “I think I understand.  I don’t actually need a Stone of my own.”  He looked at Dawson, and it seemed to James that the entire weight of the world was contained in the question in his eyes.  “Do I?”

Dawson blinked.  James saw that his eyes had suddenly gotten as suspiciously red and wet as Amanda’s.  But his voice was steady.  “No,” he said.  “No, I don’t think you do.”  He took Ben’s hand.  The pair of them didn’t kneel—James suspected that such a motion was impossible for Joe, with his missing legs.  But they both bent from the waist and leaned forward, reaching toward the line of crystals together.

The fifth sphere rolled into both their hands.

“Well,” Ben said, in startled, unconscious imitation of Amanda.  “That’s, um, well.”  He suddenly grinned, a perfectly happy, almost boyish grin.  “Did we just get married, Joe?”

“You know, I really think we did,” Joe said.  “Kiss me, already.”

And Ben did.

It lasted for a long time…possibly prolonged, or then again maybe not, by Richard’s loud celebratory whoop, James’s and Jeremy’s heartfelt applause, and Amanda’s and Richard’s noisy cheers.  The sounds of joy echoed throughout the cave, reflecting of the countless crystal faces, until it seemed like the entire world was cheering with them.  At last, though, Ben and Dawson had to break for air.  “Okay,”  Joe said, attempting to sound serious…but the effect was completely spoiled by his stupid, foolish grin.  “That’s five of the darn things accounted for.  Time to dispose of the last one.  Richie?”

The young Immortal shook his head shyly.  “I, um, I’ll try,” he said.  “But I really don’t think…well.  I guess it’s easiest just to kneel and find out.”  He dropped to his knees.  Once again, nothing happened.  The single remaining stone just stayed where it was.  After a long moment, Richie stood back up, brushing the dust of his jeans.  “Yeah,” he said, sounding surprisingly happy.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He grinned at Dawson.  “Looks like you were right, Joe.  He really _will_ come around.  One day.”

Joe, clearly understanding this, grinned right back, one hand pressed to his heart.  Everyone else, though, was baffled.  Especially Amanda. “Richie,” she breathed, and stopped.  She looked like her heart was breaking on Richie’s behalf.

He took her hands.  “No, Amanda.  It’s okay.  In fact, it’s pretty damn great.  It’s like with Methos…I don’t need a Stone.  Because the person I’m meant to be with?  He’s Immortal already.”

Her eyes went wide.  “ _Duncan?”_

Richie suddenly looked as shy as the teenager he no longer truly was, but he nodded.  “Yeah.  Mac.” He shrugged apologetically.  “There’s never been anyone else for me, really.”

“I—” For a second, Amanda just continued to look thunderstruck.  Then she threw her arms around Richie and hugged him fiercely.

“Well,” Ben said dryly, his own arms still wrapped around Dawson.  “That does all seem to be sorted out nicely.”  He sounded very amused—James supposed that nothing on earth could have bothered the man just then, not with a newly immortal Joe at his side.  But he did nod at the one remaining Stone, sitting all by itself at the base of the Mother Crystals.  “However, I would like to point out that there’s still one Stone left.  Does anybody have any ideas as to what should become of it?”

“Ah, yes,” James said.  “It’s all right.  I know exactly what to do with it.”  Completely unable to resist showing off a little, he reached behind him, determinedly not looking…and the final stone rolled toward him, smacking into his palm with a satisfying _thwack._ “Don’t look like that,” he said, in response to Jeremy and Richard’s open mouths.  “I’m not trying to hog two.  This isn’t for me.  It’s for a friend.”

“A friend?”  Ben repeated.  He was clearly trying to look both skeptical and suspicious, but was so ridiculously happy it didn’t quite work.  “James.  I shouldn’t have to remind you…”

“I know, I know,” James said, grinning.  “The stones are still the most powerful artifacts known to Immortal kind.  We need to be careful who they go to.  But it’s all right.  It really is.”  He looked down at the stone.  “Besides.  It’s not up to me.  It’s up to it.”

“Yes,” Ben said thoughtfully.  “I suppose it is.”  He looked down at Joe.  “Well.  What do we do now?”

“I think,” Joe Dawson said, appearing to give the matter long and careful consideration, “that we live happily ever after.”

And so they did.


	12. Epilogue

**~Six months later~**

“JEREMY!”  Richard, his hair wet and clouds of steam escaping from behind him, craned his head through the hotel bathroom door.  “You forgot your bloody Stone again!  You left it in the sink!”

“I did?”

James, reading an old Spitfire engine repair manual on the couch in their current hotel suite’s bright and cheerful sitting room, didn’t even bother to hide his grin as Jeremy started patting himself down from shoulder to hip, in much the same way he did whenever he was missing his reading glasses.  It really was a good thing, James reflected, that the Stones granting them all health and small-i-immortality were magic.  Not only had they gradually shrunk themselves into smaller, more discrete sizes—they were now all the size of marbles, easy to carry in a pocket and explain as a good luck charm or sentimental memento of youth—but the Stones did indeed follow the men around just like the elf coins of old Irish myth.  No matter how thoroughly they seemed to lose them, the Stones always returned to their sides.  And sometimes James would catch just the barest twinkle of a nearly-inaudible giggle when they did, which made him suspect that the little spheres secretly enjoyed the challenge.  “Lucky Richard found it this time,” he said.  “Don’t want your Stone to have to resort to another Golden Retriever.”

Jeremy snorted, clearly remembering the time he’d lost his Stone in San Francisco, and it had been returned to him at an outside café by an extremely over-affectionate canine.  “Damn thing humped my leg like a stripper going for the Miss Lap Dance title,” he groused.  “Took two dry cleanings to get all the slobber out of my pants.”

“Your own fault,” James said, mock-severe.  “I know we’re all guilty of losing our Stones from time to time, but you’re by far the worst of us, Jez.  Maybe your Stone was trying to teach you a lesson.”

“I still say we should have them set in some kind of metal.  That way we could attach them to our keys.”

“Don’t think they’d agree to stay away from us long enough to let a jeweler do the work,” James answered.  “Besides.  Just how many times have you misplaced your keys in the last week alone?  Somehow, I think that would just be compounding the problem.”  James rolled his eyes as Jeremy, frowning, stood up and began fishing in his trouser pocket.  “Well, there’s no point in looking for it now, you big gaby.  Richard’s _found_ yours.  It’s in the bath.”

“Yeah, but I could have sworn…there!”  Jeremy’s questing fingers finally hit pay dirt.  He pulled out his own Stone triumphantly.  “There, see?  I still have mine.  It must be yours that Richard found, James.”

“You think?  Let me see.”  James patted his chest pocket, encountered something hard and round.  “No, I’ve still got mine, too,” he said, producing it and holding it up to the light.  He snickered.  “Richard must have ‘found’ his own, then.”

Jeremy chortled happily.  “Just like him, the stupid cock,” he agreed fondly.  “We’ve got to talk him into going to the oculist soon, James.  Bugger thinks that just because he was younger than us when he stopped aging, he doesn’t need glasses.  But the truth is he needed them years before we celebrated his first thirty-ninth birthday.  We’ll have to…”  Jeremy trailed off.  Because Richard had just emerged from the bath, towel strategically wrapped around his tan waist.  And he was carrying TWO Stones in his hand. 

“It was sitting on the counter next to my shaving kit, Jezza,” Richard said grumpily.  “Knocked it in the sink when I reached for my razor.  You’re lucky the bloody thing didn’t go down the drain.” He frowned, seeing that Jeremy was holding up his Stone.  “Oh.  Must be James’s, then.”  James held up his, as well.  Richard’s frown deepened.  “Oh.  Oh!  Must be….er, no.”  He looked down at the two Stones in his hand.  “Errmm…so now we have four instead of three?  What’s going on?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Jeremy said.  He turned his own frown on James.  “James.  What exactly happened to that second Stone you took from the cave?  The one you’d never tell us who you thought it was meant for?”

“Last I knew, it was in London, in our bedroom safe,” James answered.  “But one never can count on these Stones to be where you think they are.  Here, let me try something.”  He held out his hand.  Richard gave a little squeak as one of the Stones suddenly dropped from his hand and rolled across the hotel carpeting to James.  James picked it up, looking smug.  “Ah,” he said, in his best wise tone.  “I see.”

“Oh for god’s sake.”  Jeremy was rapidly losing patience.  “Just what do you see, you infuriating man?”

“I see that it’s finally time for the last Stone to go home,” James said.  And would say nothing more, no matter how his two immortal loves badgered and pried.

***

James kept his eyes peeled for the next several days.  Still, he would have missed Anansi altogether if the second Stone hadn’t suddenly twitched in his pocket while he was waiting in the airport.  The tall Immortal was standing across the corridor, within the shadow of a thick, industrial concrete column.  He wrapped the shadows around him effortlessly, and so thoroughly, that he all but disappeared.  Certainly none of the other airport travelers milling about seemed to notice him—which was, James supposed, a very good thing, because otherwise Anansi’s scars would cause far too much comment to be comfortable.  He told Jeremy and Richard he was visiting the toilet and ducked across the corridor.  When he reached Anansi and stepped behind the column, it was as if the two of them were suddenly in their own little world.  “So,” Anansi said.  “You made the sacrifice.”

“I did.  Willingly.”

“Of course.  That was the only way it _could_ be made, young one.”  Anansi’s old, dark eyes suddenly looked bleak.  “I do not regret that the Stone has left the world.  It has been…blessed, living these last few months with our connection broken.  For the first time in millennia, I have not had to carry the burden of the pain my treachery caused.  But I am saddened, a little.”  He shrugged his spindly shoulders.  “The Stone was the last piece of Kaya to grace this earth.  It will be a much poorer place, with none of her left behind.”

“You don’t know, then,” James said slowly.  “You really don’t know what happened.”

Anansi’s bleakness instantly transformed into alarm.  For a second, James could have sworn that the old eyes actually reflected red, like an animal suddenly caught by headlights in the dark.  “And just what really happened, youngster?”

For answer, James simply fished out the two Stones currently residing in his pocket.  He held them out, one in each palm.

For a second, he wondered if Anansi would still know them, they were so changed in shape and size.  But the old Immortal’s eyes went wide with recognition and shock.  “ _How is this?”_ he demanded, his voice a low hiss that nonetheless seemed to shake James’s very bones.  “The web that bound me to the fragments was _broken_ , youngling.  I was sure they had ceased to be!”

“Not ceased to be, Anansi.  Just…reshaped.  Each fragment became a whole Stone of its own.  Six, in all.”

“But…” And now Anansi looked horrified.  “No.  By the Sky Father, no.”  He eyed James with something like pure, abject terror.  “You say there are now six, and you have two.  But there were seven of you within that cave, after the one who kidnapped your friends left this world.  How is this possible?  Has…” He seemed to choke on the words.  “Has the madness to possess them simply been multiplied, then?  Has the bloodshed already begun anew?”

“Bloodshed…” James repeated dimly.  Then he understood, and blanched.  “Oh, no, God, no.  I didn’t _murder_ anyone to take them, Anansi.  The Stones are tired of all that—they are never going to let it happen again.  They chose to come to me.”  He shook his head frantically.  “Or one of them did, at least. The Stones decided for themselves who they were to go to.  One went to Amanda, to be shared with a mortal she has yet to meet.  Another chose Joe and Ben.  Richie didn’t need one, seeing as how his one true love was Immortal already.  After that there were four—three of whom chose Richard, Jeremy, and me.  And that just left one.”  He swallowed hard, and lifted his right hand.   “One for _you,_ Anansi.”

The yearning that filled Anansi’s eyes was terrible to see.  His hand lifted quickly…and just as quickly, he snatched it back.  “It cannot be.”

“No.  It really, really can,” James said quietly.  The Stone on his right palm suddenly flared with a whole constellation of tiny blue lights, spiraling around within the stone like a galaxy.  He could hear its eagerness chime through his head, and laughed.  “There.  You see?”

“Can it…”  Anansi’s entire body was trembling like a leaf.  He looked at James questioningly.  “Can such forgiveness really be possible?  Even for a sin like mine?”

“I think it can,” James answered seriously.  “Not always.  Not without penance.  And even more importantly, never before the damage the sin has caused has truly ceased.  But yes, then.  Sometimes.”  The lights within the Stone twinkled hypnotically, as if in agreement.  “This Stone has always been meant for you,” James continued.  “I think…I think it’s hoping that one day a mortal will be born whose heart beats a fraction of a second behind yours, and that when the day comes that you finally give this to him or her, your hearts will beat in sync.  Until then…it’s a little bit of Kaya.  A little bit of Abeni, too.  And they’ll stay with you, be your companions.  Until the right person comes along.”

“I—” Anansi said.  He still looked torn.  But the crystal suddenly rolled off James’s palm, and quick as a snake, Anansi stooped to catch it.  It settled happily into his hands, the light dancing within its depths throwing a thousand fireflies across Anansi’s dark skin as he looked down on it in wonder.

James watched it all, and smiled.

***

“There you are,” Jeremy said grumpily when James finally reappeared.  He was standing up, several bags full of heavy camera equipment strung across his back.  “It’s time to board.  I was just about to send Richard to the toilets to see if you’d fallen in.”  He lowered his voice.  “You all right, James?  Not having any problems with the old water works, are you?  I know the Stones are supposed to take care of such things, but…”

“No, Jeremy,” James said, a choked off laugh in his voice.  “I’m fine.  _Everything_ is fine.”  His eyes flickered back across the crowded corridor, to the pillar where Anansi had stood…but stood no longer, having vanished off to wherever he’d vanished off to.  James highly doubted he’s ever see the man again.  Still, his heart was light.  He grinned almost manically as he picked up his own bags, then helpfully took on a few of Jeremy’s as well, hearing the older man sigh in relief as he shifted a few pounds of electronic burden from his shoulders to James’s.  James let the weight settle in, then frowned, looking out the window to where their jet was waiting on the airstrip.  “Sorry,” he said.  “But where are we going, anyway?  We’ve done so much travelling the last few weeks that I’ve utterly lost track.”

Jeremy heaved a long-suffering sigh, and James expecting him to answer rather snippily…ah, yes, Canada, James remembered now.  They were going to test an assortment of mid-range SUVs’ off-road abilities against an actual horse.  But much to his surprise, Jeremy hesitated, cocked his head as if hearing something James couldn’t…and then suddenly relaxed, smiling brilliantly.  “Well,” he said.  “You never know, James.  We might end up _anywhere.”_

James found himself smiling, too.  “Second star from the right?” he suggested.

Richard, who was settling his own assorted baggage onto his back, grinned as well.  “Into the wild blue yonder,” he agreed.  “Jeremy’s right.  We could be going anywhere.”  He looked up at happily at his two beloveds, eyes sparkling with love and joy.  “And truth be told?  I don’t actually care.  As long as the three of us go together.”

“Exactly,” Jeremy said softly.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” James agreed.  “ _Couldn’t_ have it any other way.  It’s three of us, forever.”  He smiled out at the plane.  “Wherever the four winds take us.”

And they boarded the plane, and flew off to their next adventure.

The End


End file.
